II

"You know the friendship, there is betwixt Sancerre and me.

Nevertheless about two years ago he fell in love with Madam de Tournon,

and concealed it from me with as much care as from the rest of the

world; I had not the least suspicion of it. Madam de Tournon as yet

appeared inconsolable for the death of her husband, and lived in

retirement with great austerity. Sancerre's sister was in a manner the

only person she saw, and it was at her lodgings he became in love with

her.

"One evening there was to be play at the Louvre, and the actors only

waited for the coming of the King and Madam de Valentinois, when word

was brought that she was indisposed, and that the King would not come.

It was easy to see that the Duchess's indisposition was nothing but

some quarrel with the King; everyone knew the jealousy he had had of

the Mareschal de Brisac during his continuance at Court, but he had

been set out some days on his return to Piemont, and one could not

imagine what was the occasion of this falling out.

"While I was speaking of this to Sancerre, Monsieur d'Anville came into

the room, and told me in a whisper, that the King was so exasperated

and so afflicted at the same time, that one would pity him; that upon a

late reconciliation between him and the Duchess, after the quarrel they

had had about the Mareschal de Brisac, he had given her a ring, and

desired her to wear it; and that as she was dressing herself to come to

the play, he had missed it on her finger, and asked what was become of

it; upon which she seemed in surprise that she had it not, and called

to her women for it, who unfortunately, or for want of being better

instructed, made answer they had not seen it four or five days.

"It was," continued Monsieur d'Anville, "precisely so long, since the

Mareschal de Brisac left the Court, and the King made no doubt but she

gave him the ring when she took her leave of him. The thought of this

awaked in so lively a manner that jealousy which was not yet

extinguished, that he fell into uncommon transports, and loaded her

with a thousand reproaches; he is just gone into her apartment again in

great concern, but whether the reason is a more confirmed opinion that

the Duchess had made a sacrifice of the ring, or for fear of having

disobliged her by his anger, I can't tell.

"As soon as Monsieur d'Anville had told me this news, I acquainted

Sancerre with it; I told it him as a secret newly entrusted with me,

and charged him to say nothing of it.

"The next day I went early in the morning to my sister-in-law's, and

found Madam de Tournon at her bedside, who had no great kindness for

the Duchess of Valentinois, and knew very well that my sister-in-law

had no reason to be satisfied with her. Sancerre had been with her,

after he went from the play, and had acquainted her with the quarrel

between the King and the Duchess; and Madam de Tournon was come to tell

it to my sister-in-law, without knowing or suspecting that it was I

from whom her lover had it.

"As soon as I advanced toward my sister-in-law, she told Madam de

Tournon, that they might trust me with what she had been telling her;

and without waiting Madam de Tournon's leave she related to me word by

word all I had told Sancerre the night before. You may judge what

surprise I was in; I looked hard at Madam de Tournon, and she seemed

disordered; her disorder gave me a suspicion. I had told the thing to

nobody but Sancerre; he left me when the comedy was done, without

giving any reason for it; I remembered to have heard him speak much in

praise of Madam de Tournon; all these things opened my eyes, and I

easily discerned there was an intrigue between them, and that he had

seen her since he left me.

"I was so stung to find he had concealed this adventure from me, that I

said several things which made Madam de Tournon sensible of the

imprudence she had been guilty of; I led her back to her coach, and

assured her, I envied the happiness of him who informed her of the

King's quarrel with the Duchess of Valentinois.

"I went immediately in search of Sancerre, and severely reproached him;

I told him I knew of his passion for Madam de Tournon, without saying

how I came by the discovery; he was forced to acknowledge it; I

afterwards informed him what led me into the knowledge of it, and he

acquainted me with the detail of the whole affair; he told me, that

though he was a younger brother, and far from being able to pretend to

so good a match, nevertheless she was determined to marry him. I can't

express the surprise I was in; I told Sancerre he would do well to

hasten the conclusion of the marriage, and that there was nothing he

had not to fear from a woman who had the artifice to support, in the

eye of the public, appearances so distant from truth; he gave me in

answer that she was really concerned for the loss of her husband, but

that the inclination she had for him had surmounted that affliction,

and that she could not help discovering all on a sudden so great a

change; he mentioned besides several other reasons in her excuse, which

convinced me how desperately he was in love; he assured me he would

bring her to consent that I should know his passion for her, especially

since it was she herself who had made me suspect it; in a word, he did

oblige her to it, though with a great deal of difficulty, and I grew

afterwards very deep in their confidence.

"I never knew a lady behave herself in so genteel and agreeable a

manner to her lover, but yet I was always shocked at the affectation

she showed in appearing so concerned for the loss of her husband.

Sancerre was so much in love, and so well pleased with the treatment he

received from her, that he scarce durst press her to conclude the

marriage, for fear she should think he desired it rather out of

interest than love; however he spoke to her of it, and she seemed fully

bent on marrying him; she began also to abandon her reserved manner of

life, and to appear again in public; she visited my sister-in-law at

hours when some of the Court were usually there; Sancerre came there

but seldom, but those who came every night, and frequently saw her

there, thought her extremely beautiful.

"She had not long quitted her solitude, when Sancerre imagined that her

passion for him was cooled; he spoke of it several times to me: but I

laid no great stress on the matter; but at last, when he told me, that

instead of forwarding the marriage, she seemed to put it off, I began

to think he was not to blame for being uneasy: I remonstrated to him,

that if Madam de Tournon's passion was abated after having continued

two years, he ought not to be surprised at it, and that even supposing

it was not abated, possibly it might not be strong enough to induce her

to marry him; that he ought not to complain of it; that such a marriage

in the judgment of the public would draw censures upon her, not only

because he was not a suitable match for her, but also on account of the

prejudice it would do her reputation; that therefore all he could

desire was, that she might not deceive him, nor lead him into false

expectations; I told him further, that if she had not resolution enough

to marry him, or if she confessed she liked some other person better,

he ought not to resent or be angry at it, but still continue his esteem

and regard for her.

"I give you," said I, "the advice which I would take myself; for

sincerity has such charms to me, that I believe if my mistress, or even

my wife ingenuously confessed, she had a greater affection for another

than for me, I might be troubled, but not exasperated; I would lay

aside the character of a lover or a husband, to bestow my advice and my

pity."

This discourse made Madam de Cleves blush, and she found in it a

certain similitude of her own condition, which very much surprised her,

and gave her a concern, from which she could not recover in a great

while.

"Sancerre spoke to Madam de Tournon," continued Monsieur de Cleves,

"and told her all I had advised him; but she encouraged him with so

many fresh assurances, and seemed so displeased at his suspicions, that

she entirely removed them; nevertheless she deferred the marriage until

after a pretty long journey he was to make; but she behaved herself so

well until his departure, and appeared so concerned at it, that I

believed as well as he, that she sincerely loved him. He set out about

three months ago; during his absence I have seldom seen Madam de

Tournon; you have entirely taken me up, and I only knew that he was

speedily expected.

"The day before yesterday, on my arrival at Paris, I heard she was

dead; I sent to his lodgings to enquire if they had any news of him,

and word was brought me he came to town the night before, which was

precisely the day that Madam de Tournon died; I immediately went to see

him, concluding in what condition I should find him, but his affliction

far surpassed what I had imagined.

"Never did I see a sorrow so deep and so tender; the moment he saw me

he embraced me with tears; 'I shall never see her more,' said he, 'I

shall never see her more, she is dead, I was not worthy of her, but I

shall soon follow her.'

"After this he was silent; and then, from time to time, continually

repeating 'She is dead, I shall never see her more,' he returned to

lamentations and tears, and continued as a man bereft of reason. He

told me he had not often received letters from her during his absence,

but that he knew her too well to be surprised at it, and was sensible

how shy and timorous she was of writing; he made no doubt but she would

have married him upon his return; he considered her as the most amiable

and constant of her sex; he thought himself tenderly beloved by her; he

lost her the moment he expected to be united to her for ever; all these

thoughts threw him into so violent an affliction, that I own I was

deeply touched with it.

"Nevertheless I was obliged to leave him to go to the King, but

promised to return immediately; accordingly I did, and I was never so

surprised as I was to find him entirely changed from what I had left

him; he was standing in his chamber, his face full of fury, sometimes

walking, sometimes stopping short, as if he had been distracted;

'Come,' says he, 'and see the most forlorn wretch in the world; I am a

thousand times more unhappy than I was a while ago, and what I have

just heard of Madam de Tournon is worse than her death.'

"I took what he said to be wholly the effect of grief, and could not

imagine that there could be anything worse than the death of a mistress

one loves and is beloved by; I told him, that so far as he kept his

grief within bounds, I approved of it, and bore a part in it; but that

I should no longer pity him, if he abandoned himself to despair and

flew from reason. 'I should be too happy if I had lost both my reason

and my life,' cried he; 'Madam de Tournon was false to me, and I am

informed of her unfaithfulness and treachery the very day after I was

informed of her death; I am informed of it at a time when my soul is

filled with the most tender love, and pierced with the sharpest grief

that ever was; at a time when the idea of her in my heart, is that of

the most perfect woman who ever lived, and the most perfect with

respect to me; I find I am mistaken, and that she does not deserve to

be lamented by me; nevertheless I have the same concern for her death,

as if she had been true to me, and I have the same sensibility of her

falsehood, as if she were yet living; had I heard of her falsehood

before her death, jealousy, anger, and rage would have possessed me,

and in some measure hardened me against the grief for her loss; but now

my condition is such, that I am incapable of receiving comfort, and yet

know not how to hate her.'

"You may judge of the surprise I was in at what Sancerre told me; I

asked him how he came by the knowledge of it, and he told me that the

minute I went away from him, Etouteville, who is his intimate friend,

but who nevertheless knew nothing of his love for Madam de Tournon,

came to see him; that as soon as he was sat down, he fell a-weeping,

and asked his pardon for having concealed from him what he was going to

tell him, that he begged him to have compassion of him, that he was

come to open his heart to him, and that he was the person in the world

the most afflicted for the death of Madam de Tournon.

"'That name,' said Sancerre, 'so astonished me, that though my first

intention was to tell him I was more afflicted than he, I had not the

power to speak: he continued to inform me, that he had been in love

with her six months, that he was always desirous to let me know it, but

she had expressly forbid him; and in so authoritative a manner, that he

durst not disobey her; that he gained her in a manner as soon as he

courted her, that they concealed their mutual passion for each other

from the whole world, that he never visited her publicly, that he had

the pleasure to remove her sorrow for her husband's death, and that

lastly he was to have married her at the very juncture in which she

died; but that this marriage, which was an effect of love, would have

appeared in her an effect of duty and obedience, she having prevailed

upon her father to lay his commands on her to marry him, in order to

avoid the appearance of too great an alteration in her conduct, which

had seemed so averse to a second marriage.'

"'While Etouteville was speaking to me,' said Sancerre, 'I believed all

he said, because I found so much probability in it, and because the

time when he told me his passion for Madam de Tournon commenced, is

precisely the same with that when she appeared changed towards me; but

the next morning I thought him a liar, or at least an enthusiast, and

was upon the point of telling him so. Afterwards I came into an

inclination of clearing up the matter, and proposed several questions,

and laid my doubts before him, in a word, I proceeded so far to

convince myself of my misfortune, that he asked me if I knew Madam de

Tournon's handwriting, and with that threw upon my bed four letters of

hers and her picture; my brother came in that minute; Etouteville's

face was so full of tears, that he was forced to withdraw to avoid

being observed, and said he would come again in the evening to fetch

what he left with me; and as for me, I sent my brother away under

pretence of being indisposed, so impatient was I to see the letters he

had left, and so full of hopes to find something there that might make

me disbelieve what Etouteville had been telling me; but alas! What did

I not find there? What tenderness! what assurances of marriage! what

letters! She never wrote the like to me. Thus,' continued he, 'am I

at once pierced with anguish for her death and for her falsehood, two

evils which have been often compared, but never felt before by the same

person at the same time; I confess, to my shame, that still I am more

grieved for her loss than for her change; I cannot think her guilty

enough, to consent to her death: were she living, I should have the

satisfaction to reproach her, and to revenge myself on her by making

her sensible of her injustice; but I shall see her no more, I shall see

her no more; this is the greatest misfortune of all others; would I

could restore her to life, though with the loss of my own! Yet what do

I wish! If she were restored to life, she would live for Etouteville:

how happy was I yesterday,' cried he, 'how happy! I was the most

afflicted man in the world; but my affliction was reasonable, and there

was something pleasing in the very thought that I was inconsolable;

today all my sentiments are unjust; I pay to a feigned passion the

tribute of my grief, which I thought I owed to a real one; I can

neither hate nor love her memory; I am incapable of consolation, and

yet don't know how to grieve for her; take care, I conjure you, that I

never see Etouteville; his very name raises horror in me; I know very

well I have no reason of complaint against him; I was to blame in

concealing from him my love for Madam de Tournon; if he had known it,

perhaps he would not have pursued her, perhaps she would not have been

false to me; he came to me to impart his sorrows, and I cannot but pity

him; alas! he had reason to love Madam de Tournon, he was beloved by

her, and will never see her more: notwithstanding I perceive I can't

help hating him; once more I conjure you take care I may not see him.'

"Sancerre burst afterwards into tears, began again to regret Madam de

Tournon, and to speak to her, as if she were present, and say the

softest things in the world; from these transports he passed to hatred,

to complaints, to reproaches and imprecations against her. When I saw

him in so desperate a condition, I found I should want somebody to

assist me in appeasing his mind; accordingly I sent for his brother,

whom I had left with the King; I met him in the anti-chamber, and

acquainted him with Sancerre's condition: we gave the necessary orders

to prevent his seeing Etouteville, and employed part of the night in

endeavouring to make him capable of reason; this morning I found him

yet more afflicted; his brother continued with him, and I returned to

you."

"'Tis impossible to be more surprised than I am," said Madam de Cleves;

"I thought Madam de Tournon equally incapable of love and falsehood."

"Address and dissimulation," replied Monsieur de Cleves, "cannot go

further than she carried them; observe, that when Sancerre thought her

love to him was abated, it really was, and she began to love

Etouteville; she told the last that he removed her sorrow for her

husband's death, and that he was the cause of her quitting her

retirement; Sancerre believed the cause was nothing but a resolution

she had taken not to seem any longer to be in such deep affliction; she

made a merit to Etouteville of concealing her correspondence with him,

and of seeming forced to marry him by her father's command, as if it

was an effect of the care she had of her reputation; whereas it was

only an artifice to forsake Sancerre, without his having reason to

resent it: I must return," continued Monsieur de Cleves, "to see this

unhappy man, and I believe you would do well to go to Paris too; it is

time for you to appear in the world again, and receive the numerous

visits which you can't well dispense with."

Madam de Cleves agreed to the proposal, and returned to Paris the next

day; she found herself much more easy with respect to the Duke de

Nemours than she had been; what her mother had told her on her

death-bed, and her grief for her death, created a sort of suspension in

her mind as to her passion for the Duke, which made her believe it was

quite effaced.

The evening of her arrival the Queen-Dauphin made her a visit, and

after having condoled with her, told her that in order to divert her

from melancholy thoughts, she would let her know all that had passed at

Court in her absence; upon which she related to her a great many

extraordinary things; "but what I have the greatest desire to inform

you of," added she, "is that it is certain the Duke de Nemours is

passionately in love; and that his most intimate friends are not only

not entrusted in it, but can't so much as guess who the person is he is

in love with; nevertheless this passion of his is so strong as to make

him neglect, or to speak more properly, abandon the hopes of a Crown."

The Queen-Dauphin afterwards related whatever had passed in England;

"What I have just told you," continued she, "I had from Monsieur

d'Anville; and this morning he informed me, that last night the King

sent for the Duke de Nemours upon the subject of Lignerol's letters,

who desires to return, and wrote to his Majesty that he could no longer

excuse to the Queen of England the Duke of Nemours's delay; that she

begins to be displeased at it; and though she has not positively given

her promise, she has said enough to encourage him to come over; the

King showed this letter to the Duke of Nemours, who instead of speaking

seriously as he had done at the beginning of this affair, only laughed

and trifled, and made a jest of Lignerol's expectations: He said, 'The

whole world would censure his imprudence, if he ventured to go to

England, with the pretensions of marrying the Queen, without being

secure of success; I think,' added he, 'I should time my business very

ill to go to England now, when the King of Spain uses such pressing

instances to obtain the Queen in marriage; the Spanish King perhaps

would not be a very formidable rival in matters of gallantry, but in a

treaty of marriage I believe your Majesty would not advise me to be his

competitor.' 'I would advise you to it upon this occasion,' replied the

King; 'but however you will have no competitor in him; I know he has

quite other thoughts; and though he had not, Queen Mary found herself

so uneasy under the weight of the Spanish Crown, that I can't believe

her sister will be very desirous of it.' 'If she should not,' replied

the Duke of Nemours, 'it is probable she will seek her happiness in

love; she has been in love with my Lord Courtenay for several years;

Queen Mary too was in love with him, and would have married him with

consent of the states of her kingdom, had not she known that the youth

and beauty of her sister Elizabeth had more charms for him than her

crown; your Majesty knows, that the violence of her jealousy carried

her so far, as to imprison them both, and afterwards to banish my Lord

Courtenay, and at last determined her to marry the King of Spain; I

believe Queen Elizabeth will soon recall that Lord, and make choice of

a man whom she loves, who deserves her love, and who has suffered so

much for her, in preference to another whom she never saw.' 'I should

be of that opinion,' replied the King, 'if my Lord Courtenay were

living, but I received advice some days ago, that he died at Padua,

whither he was banished: I plainly see,' added the King, as he left the

Duke, 'that your marriage must be concluded the same way the Dauphin's

was, and that ambassadors must be sent to marry the Queen of England

for you.'

"Monsieur d'Anville and the Viscount, who were with the King when he

spoke to the Duke of Nemours, are persuaded that it is the passion he

is so deeply engaged in, which diverts him from so great a design; the

Viscount, who sees deeper into him than anybody, told Madam de Martigny

that he was so changed he did not know him again; and what astonishes

him more is, that he does not find he has any private interviews, or

that he is ever missing at particular times, so that he believes he has

no correspondence with the person he is in love with; and that which

surprises him in the Duke is to see him in love with a woman who does

not return his love."

What poison did this discourse of the Queen-Dauphin carry in it for

Madam de Cleves? How could she but know herself to be the person whose

name was not known, and how could she help being filled with tenderness

and gratitude, when she learned, by a way not in the least liable to

suspicion, that the Duke, who had already touched her heart, concealed

his passion from the whole world, and neglected for her sake the hopes

of a Crown? It is impossible to express what she felt, or to describe

the tumult that was raised in her soul. Had the Queen-Dauphin observed

her closely, she might easily have discerned, that what she had been

saying was not indifferent to her; but as she had not the least

suspicion of the truth, she continued her discourse without minding

her: "Monsieur d'Anville," added she, "from whom, as I just told you,

I had all this, believes I know more of it than himself, and he has so

great an opinion of my beauty, that he is satisfied I am the only

person capable of creating so great a change in the Duke of Nemours."

These last words of the Queen-Dauphin gave Madam de Cleves a sort of

uneasiness very different from that which she had a few minutes before.

"I can easily come into Monsieur d'Anville's opinion," answered she;

"and 'tis very probable, Madam, that nothing less than a Princess of

your merit could make him despise the Queen of England." "I would own

it to you, if I knew it," replied the Queen-Dauphin, "and I should know

it, if it were true; such passions as these never escape the sight of

those who occasion them; they are the first to discern them; the Duke

of Nemours has never showed me anything but slight complaisances; and

yet I find so great a difference betwixt his present and former

behaviour to me, that I can assure you, I am not the cause of the

indifference he expresses for the Crown of England.

"But I forget myself in your company," added the Queen-Dauphin, "and

don't remember that I am to wait upon Madame: you know the peace is as

good as concluded, but perhaps you don't know that the King of Spain

has refused to sign it, but on condition of marrying this Princess,

instead of the Prince Don Carlos, his son: the King was with great

difficulty brought to allow it, but at last he has consented, and is

gone to carry the news to Madame; I believe she will be inconsolable.

To marry a man of the King of Spain's age and temper can never be

pleasing, especially to her who has all the gaiety which the bloom of

youth joined with beauty inspires, and was in expectation of marrying a

young Prince for whom she has an inclination without having seen him.

I do not know whether the King will find in her all the obedience he

desires; he has charged me to see her, because he knows she loves me,

and believes I shall be able to influence her. From thence I shall

make a visit of a very different nature, to congratulate the King's

sister. All things are ready for her marriage with the Prince of

Savoy, who is expected in a few days. Never was a woman of her age so

entirely pleased to be married; the Court will be more numerous and

splendid than ever, and notwithstanding your grief, you must come among

us, in order to make strangers see that we are furnished with no mean

beauties."

Having said this, the Queen-Dauphin took her leave of Madam de Cleves,

and the next day Madame's marriage was publicly known; some days after

the King and the Queens went to visit the Princess of Cleves; the Duke

de Nemours, who had expected her return with the utmost impatience, and

languished for an opportunity of speaking to her in private, contrived

to wait upon her at an hour, when the company would probably be

withdrawing, and nobody else come in; he succeeded in his design, and

came in when the last visitors were going away.

The Princess was sitting on her bed, and the hot weather, together with

the sight of the Duke de Nemours, gave her a blush that added to her

beauty; he sat over against her with a certain timorous respect, that

flows from a real love; he continued some minutes without speaking; nor

was she the less at a loss, so that they were both silent a good while:

at last the Duke condoled with her for her mother's death; Madam de

Cleves was glad to give the conversation that turn, spoke a

considerable time of the great loss she had had, and at last said, that

though time had taken off from the violence of her grief, yet the

impression would always remain so strong, that it would entirely change

her humour. "Great troubles and excessive passions," replied the Duke,

"make great alterations in the mind; as for me, I am quite another man

since my return from Flanders; abundance of people have taken notice of

this change, and the Queen-Dauphin herself spoke to me of it

yesterday." "It is true," replied the Princess, "she has observed it,

and I think I remember to have heard her say something about it." "I'm

not sorry, Madam," replied the Duke, "that she has discerned it, but I

could wish some others in particular had discerned it too; there are

persons to whom we dare give no other evidences of the passion we have

for them, but by things which do not concern them; and when we dare not

let them know we love them, we should be glad at least to have them see

we are not desirous of being loved by any other; we should be glad to

convince them, that no other beauty, though of the highest rank, has

any charms for us, and that a Crown would be too dear, if purchased

with no less a price than absence from her we adore: women ordinarily,"

continued he, "judge of the passion one has for them, by the care one

takes to oblige, and to be assiduous about them; but it's no hard

matter to do this, though they be ever so little amiable; not to give

oneself up to the pleasure of pursuing them, to shun them through fear

of discovering to the public, and in a manner to themselves, the

sentiments one has for them, here lies the difficulty; and what still

more demonstrates the truth of one's passion is, the becoming entirely

changed from what one was, and the having no longer a gust either for

ambition or pleasure, after one has employed one's whole life in

pursuit of both."

The Princess of Cleves readily apprehended how far she was concerned in

this discourse; one while she seemed of opinion that she ought not to

suffer such an address; another, she thought she ought not to seem to

understand it, or show she supposed herself meant by it; she thought

she ought to speak, and she thought she ought to be silent; the Duke of

Nemours's discourse equally pleased and offended her; she was convinced

by it of the truth of all the Queen-Dauphin had led her to think; she

found in it somewhat gallant and respectful, but also somewhat bold and

too intelligible; the inclination she had for the Duke gave her an

anxiety which it was not in her power to control; the most obscure

expressions of a man that pleases, move more than the most open

declaration of one we have no liking for; she made no answer; the Duke

de Nemours took notice of her silence, which perhaps would have proved

no ill-presage, if the coming in of the Prince of Cleves had not ended

at once the conversation and the visit.

The Prince was coming to give his wife a further account of Sancerre,

but she was not over curious to learn the sequel of that adventure; she

was so much taken up with what had just passed, that she could hardly

conceal the embarrassment she was in. When she was at liberty to muse

upon it, she plainly saw she was mistaken, when she thought she was

indifferent as to the Duke de Nemours; what he had said to her had made

all the impression he could desire, and had entirely convinced her of

his passion; besides the Duke's actions agreed too well with his words

to leave her the least doubt about it; she no longer flattered herself

that she did not love him; all her care was not to let him discover it,

a task of which she had already experienced the difficulty; she knew

the only way to succeed in it was to avoid seeing him; and as her

mourning gave her an excuse for being more retired than usual, she made

use of that pretence not to go to places where he might see her; she

was full of melancholy; her mother's death was the seeming cause of it,

and no suspicion was had of any other.

The Duke de Nemours, not seeing her any more, fell into desperation and

knowing he should not meet with her in any public assembly, or at any

diversions the Court joined in, he could not prevail upon himself to

appear there, and therefore he pretended a great love for hunting, and

made matches for that sport on the days when the Queens kept their

assemblies; a slight indisposition had served him a good while as an

excuse for staying at home, and declining to go to places where he knew

very well that Madam de Cleves would not be.

The Prince of Cleves was ill almost at the same time, and the Princess

never stirred out of his room during his illness; but when he grew

better, and received company, and among others the Duke de Nemours, who

under pretence of being yet weak, stayed with him the greatest part of

the day, she found she could not continue any longer there; and yet in

the first visits he made she had not the resolution to go out; she had

been too long without seeing him, to be able to resolve to see him no

more; the Duke had the address, by discourses that appeared altogether

general, but which she understood very well by the relation they had to

what he had said privately to her, to let her know that he went

a-hunting only to be more at liberty to think of her, and that the

reason of his not going to the assemblies was her not being there.

At last she executed the resolution she had taken to go out of her

husband's room, whenever he was there, though this was doing the utmost

violence to herself: the Duke perceived she avoided him, and the

thought of it touched him to the heart.

The Prince of Cleves did not immediately take notice of his wife's

conduct in this particular, but at last he perceived she went out of

the room when there was company there; he spoke to her of it, and she

told him that she did not think it consistent with decency to be every

evening among the gay young courtiers; that she hoped he would allow

her to live in a more reserved manner than she had done hitherto, that

the virtue and presence of her mother authorised her in many liberties

which could not otherwise be justified in a woman of her age.

Monsieur de Cleves, who had a great deal of facility and complaisance

for his wife, did not show it on this occasion, but told her he would

by no means consent to her altering her conduct; she was upon the point

of telling him, it was reported that the Duke de Nemours was in love

with her, but she had not the power to name him; besides she thought it

disingenuous to disguise the truth, and make use of pretences to a man

who had so good an opinion of her.

Some days after the King was with the Queen at the assembly hour, and

the discourse turned upon nativities and predictions; the company were

divided in their opinion as to what credit ought to be given to them;

the Queen professed to have great faith in them, and maintained that

after so many things had come to pass as they had been foretold, one

could not doubt but there was something of certainty in that science;

others affirmed, that of an infinite number of predictions so very few

proved true, that the truth of those few ought to be looked upon as an

effect of chance.

"I have formerly been very curious and inquisitive as to futurity,"

said the King, "but I have seen so many false and improbable things,

that I am satisfied there is no truth in that pretended art. Not many

years since there came hither a man of great reputation in astrology;

everybody went to see him; I went among others, but without saying who

I was, and I carried with me the Duke of Guise and Descars, and made

them go in first; nevertheless the astrologer addressed himself first

to me, as if he had concluded me to be their master; perhaps he knew

me, and yet he told me one thing that was very unsuitable to my

character, if he had known me; his prediction was that I should be

killed in a duel; he told the Duke of Guise, that he should die of a

wound received behind; and he told Descars he should be knocked of the

head by the kick of a horse; the Duke of Guise was a little angry at

the prediction, as if it imported he should run away; nor was Descars

better pleased to find he was to make his exit by so unfortunate an

accident; in a word, we went away all three of us very much out of

humour with the astrologer; I don't know what will happen to the Duke

of Guise and Descars, but there is not much probability of my being

killed in a duel; the King of Spain and I have just made peace, and if

we had not, I question whether we should have fought, or if I should

have challenged him, as the King my father did Charles the Fifth."

After the King had related the misfortune that was foretold him, those

who had defended astrology abandoned the argument, and agreed there was

no credit to be given to it: "For my part," said the Duke de Nemours

aloud, "I have the least reason of any man in the world to credit it";

and then turning himself to Madam de Cleves, near whom he stood, "it

has been foretold me," says he very softly, "that I should be happy in

a person for whom I should have the most violent and respectful

passion; you may judge, Madam, if I ought to believe in predictions."

The Queen-Dauphin, who believed, from what the Duke had spoke aloud,

that what he whispered was some false prediction that had been told

him, asked him what it was he said to Madam de Cleves; had he had a

less ready wit, he would have been surprised at this question; but

without any hesitation, "What I said to her, Madam," answered he, "was,

that it had been predicted to me, that I should be raised to a higher

fortune than my most sanguine hopes could lead me to expect." "If

nothing have been foretold you but this," replied the Queen-Dauphin,

smiling, and thinking of the affair of England, "I would not advise you

to decry astrology; you may have reasons hereafter to offer in defence

of it." Madam de Cleves apprehended the Queen-Dauphin's meaning, but

knew withal, that the fortune the Duke of Nemours spoke of was not that

of being King of England.

The time of her mourning being expired, the Princess of Cleves was

obliged to make her appearance again, and go to Court as usual; she saw

the Duke de Nemours at the Queen-Dauphin's apartment; she saw him at

the Prince of Cleves's, where he often came in company of other young

noblemen, to avoid being remarked; yet she never once saw him, but it

gave her a pain that could not escape his observation.

However industrious she was to avoid being looked at by him, and to

speak less to him than to any other, some things escaped her in an

unguarded moment, which convinced him he was not indifferent to her; a

man of less discernment than he would not have perceived it, but he had

already so often been the object of love, that it was easy for him to

know when he was loved; he found the Chevalier de Guise was his rival,

and the Chevalier knew that the Duke de Nemours was his; Monsieur de

Guise was the only man in the Court that had unravelled this affair,

his interest having made him more clear-sighted than others; the

knowledge they had of each other's sentiments created an opposition

between them in everything, which, however, did not break out into an

open quarrel; they were always of different parties at the running, at

the ring, at tournaments, and all diversions the King delighted in, and

their emulation was so great it could not be concealed.

Madam de Cleves frequently revolved in her mind the affair of England;

she believed the Duke de Nemours could not resist the advice of the

King, and the instances of Lignerolles; she was very much concerned to

find that Lignerolles was not yet returned, and she impatiently

expected him; her inclinations strongly swayed her to inform herself

exactly of the state of this affair; but the same reasons, which raised

in her that curiosity, obliged her to conceal it, and she only enquired

of the beauty, the wit, and the temper of Queen Elizabeth. A picture

of that Princess had been brought the King, which Madam de Cleves found

much handsomer than she could have wished for, and she could not

forbear saying, the picture flattered. "I don't think so," replied the

Queen-Dauphin; "that Princess has the reputation of being very

handsome, and of having a very exalted genius, and I know she has

always been proposed to me as a model worthy my imitation; she can't

but be very handsome, if she resembles her mother, Anne Boleyn; never

had woman so many charms and allurements both in her person and her

humour; I have heard say she had something remarkably lively in her

countenance, very different from what is usually found in other English

beauties." "I think," replied Madam de Cleves, "'tis said she was born

in France." "Those who imagine so are mistaken," replied the

Queen-Dauphin; "I'll give you her history in a few words.

"She was of a good family in England; Henry the Eighth was in love with

her sister and her mother, and it has been even suspected by some, that

she was his daughter; she came to France with Henry the Seventh's

sister, who married Louis XII that Princess, who was full of youth and

gallantry, left the Court of France with great reluctance after her

husband's death; but Anne Boleyn, who had the same inclinations as her

mistress, could not prevail with herself to go away; the late King was

in love with her, and she continued maid of honour to Queen Claude;

that Queen died, and Margaretta, the King's sister, Duchess of Alenson,

and since Queen of Navarre, whose story you know, took her into her

service, where she imbibed the principles of the new religion; she

returned afterwards to England, and there charmed all the world; she

had the manners of France, which please in all countries; she sung

well, she danced finely; she was a maid of honour to Queen Catherine,

and Henry the Eighth fell desperately in love with her.

"Cardinal Wolsey, his favourite and first minister, being dissatisfied

with the Emperor for not having favoured his pretensions to the Papacy,

in order to revenge himself of him, contrived an alliance between

France and the King his master; he put it into the head of Henry the

Eighth, that his marriage with the Emperor's aunt was null, and advised

him to marry the Duchess of Alenson, whose husband was just dead; Anne

Boleyn, who was not without ambition, considered Queen Catherine's

divorce as a means that would bring her to the Crown; she began to give

the King of England impressions of the Lutheran religion, and engaged

the late King to favour at Rome Henry the Eighth's divorce, in hopes of

his marrying the Duchess of Alenson; Cardinal Wolsey, that he might

have an opportunity of treating this affair, procured himself to be

sent to France upon other pretences; but his master was so far from

permitting him to propose this marriage, that he sent him express

orders to Calais not to speak of it.

"Cardinal Wolsey, at his return from France, was received with as great

honours as could have been paid to the King himself; never did any

favourite carry his pride and vanity to so great a height; he managed

an interview between the two Kings at Boulogne, when Francis the First

would have given the upperhand to Henry the Eighth, but he refused to

accept it; they treated one another by turns with the utmost

magnificence, and presented to each habits of the same sort with those

they wore themselves. I remember to have heard say, that those the late

King sent to the King of England were of crimson satin beset all over

with pearls and diamonds, and a robe of white velvet embroidered with

gold; after having stayed some time at Boulogne, they went to Calais.

Anne Boleyn was lodged in Henry the Eighth's Court with the train of a

Queen; and Francis the First made her the same presents, and paid her

the same honours as if she had been really so: in a word, after a

passion of nine year's continuance King Henry married her, without

waiting for the dissolving of his first marriage. The Pope

precipitately thundered out excommunications against him, which so

provoked King Henry, that he declared himself head of the Church, and

drew after him all England into the unhappy change in which you see it.

"Anne Boleyn did not long enjoy her greatness; for when she thought

herself most secure of it by the death of Queen Catherine, one day as

she was seeing a match of running at the ring made by the Viscount

Rochefort her brother, the King was struck with such a jealousy, that

he abruptly left the show, went away to London, and gave orders for

arresting the Queen, the Viscount Rochefort, and several others whom he

believed to be the lovers or confidants of that Princess. Though this

jealousy in appearance had its birth that moment, the King had been

long possessed with it by the Viscountess Rochefort, who not being able

to bear the strict intimacy between her husband and the Queen,

represented it to the King as a criminal commerce; so that that Prince,

who was besides in love with Jane Seymour, thought of nothing but

ridding himself of Anne Boleyn; and in less than three weeks he caused

the Queen and her brother to be tried, had them both beheaded, and,

married Jane Seymour. He had afterwards several wives, whom he

divorced or put to death; and among others Catherine Howard, whose

confidant the Viscountess Rochefort was, and who was beheaded with her:

thus was she punished for having falsely accused Anne Boleyn. And

Henry the Eighth died, being become excessive fat."

All the ladies, that were present when the Queen-Dauphin made this

relation, thanked her for having given them so good an account of the

Court of England; and among the rest Madam de Cleves, who could not

forbear asking several questions concerning Queen Elizabeth.

The Queen-Dauphin caused pictures in miniature to be drawn of all the

beauties of the Court, in order to send them to the Queen her mother.

One day, when that of Madam de Cleves was finishing, the Queen-Dauphin

came to spend the afternoon with her; the Duke de Nemours did not fail

to be there; he let slip no opportunities of seeing Madam de Cleves,

yet without appearing to contrive them. She looked so pretty that day,

that he would have fell in love with her, though he had not been so

before: however he durst not keep his eyes fixed upon her, while she

was sitting for her picture, for fear of showing too much the pleasure

he took in looking at her.

The Queen-Dauphin asked Monsieur de Cleves for a little picture he had

of his wife's, to compare it with that which was just drawn; everybody

gave their judgment of the one and the other; and Madam de Cleves

ordered the painter to mend something in the headdress of that which

had been just brought in; the painter in obedience to her took the

picture out of the case in which it was, and having mended it laid it

again on the table.

The Duke de Nemours had long wished to have a picture of Madam de

Cleves; when he saw that which Monsieur de Cleves had, he could not

resist the temptation of stealing it from a husband, who, he believed,

was tenderly loved; and he thought that among so many persons as were

in the same room he should be no more liable to suspicion than another.

The Queen-Dauphin was sitting on the bed, and whispering to Madam de

Cleves, who was standing before her. Madam de Cleves, through one of

the curtains that was but half-drawn, spied the Duke de Nemours with

his back to the table, that stood at the bed's feet, and perceived that

without turning his face he took something very dextrously from off the

table; she presently guessed it was her picture, and was in such

concern about it, that the Queen-Dauphin observed she did not attend to

what she said, and asked her aloud what it was she looked at. At those

words, the Duke de Nemours turned about, and met full the eyes of Madam

de Cleves that were still fixed upon him; he thought it not impossible

but she might have seen what he had done.

Madam de Cleves was not a little perplexed; it was reasonable to demand

her picture of him; but to demand it publicly was to discover to the

whole world the sentiments which the Duke had for her, and to demand it

in private would be to engage him to speak of his love; she judged

after all it was better to let him keep it, and she was glad to grant

him a favour which she could do without his knowing that she granted

it. The Duke de Nemours, who observed her perplexity, and partly

guessed the cause of it, came up, and told her softly, "If you have

seen what I have ventured to do, be so good, Madam, as to let me

believe you are ignorant of it; I dare ask no more"; having said this

he withdrew, without waiting for her answer.

The Queen-Dauphin went to take a walk, attended with the rest of the

ladies; and the Duke de Nemours went home to shut himself up in his

closet, not being able to support in public the ecstasy he was in on

having a picture of Madam de Cleves; he tasted everything that was

sweet in love; he was in love with the finest woman of the Court; he

found she loved him against her will, and saw in all her actions that

sort of care and embarrassment which love produces in young and

innocent hearts.

At night great search was made for the picture; and having found the

case it used to be kept in, they never suspected it had been stolen but

thought it might have fallen out by chance. The Prince of Cleves was

very much concerned for the loss of it; and after having searched for

it a great while to no purpose, he told his wife, but with an air that

showed he did not think so, that without doubt she had some secret

lover, to whom she had given the picture, or who had stole it, and that

none but a lover would have been contented with the picture without the

case.

These words, though spoke in jest, made a lively impression in the mind

of Madam de Cleves; they gave her remorse, and she reflected on the

violence of her inclination which hurried her on to love the Duke of

Nemours; she found she was no longer mistress of her words or

countenance; she imagined that Lignerolles was returned, that she had

nothing to fear from the affair of England, nor any cause to suspect

the Queen-Dauphin; in a word, that she had no refuge or defence against

the Duke de Nemours but by retiring; but as she was not at her liberty

to retire, she found herself in a very great extremity and ready to

fall into the last misfortune, that of discovering to the Duke the

inclination she had for him: she remembered all that her mother had

said to her on her death-bed, and the advice which she gave her, to

enter on any resolutions, however difficult they might be, rather than

engage in gallantry; she remembered also what Monsieur de Cleves had

told her, when he gave an account of Madam de Tournon; she thought she

ought to acknowledge to him the inclination she had for the Duke de

Nemours, and in that thought she continued a long time; afterwards she

was astonished to have entertained so ridiculous a design, and fell

back again into her former perplexity of not knowing what to choose.

The peace was signed; and the Lady Elizabeth, after a great deal of

reluctance, resolved to obey the King her father. The Duke of Alva was

appointed to marry her in the name of the Catholic King, and was very

soon expected. The Duke of Savoy too, who was to marry the King's

sister, and whose nuptials were to be solemnised at the same time, was

expected every day. The King thought of nothing but how to grace these

marriages with such diversions as might display the politeness and

magnificence of his Court. Interludes and comedies of the best kind

were proposed, but the King thought those entertainments too private,

and desired to have somewhat of a more splendid nature: he resolved to

make a solemn tournament, to which strangers might be invited, and of

which the people might be spectators. The princes and young lords very

much approved the King's design, especially the Duke of Ferrara,

Monsieur de Guise, and the Duke de Nemours, who surpassed the rest in

these sorts of exercises. The King made choice of them to be together

with himself the four champions of the tournament.

Proclamation was made throughout the kingdom, that on the 15th of June

in the City of Paris, his most Christian Majesty, and the Princes

Alphonso d'Ete Duke of Ferrara, Francis of Loraine Duke of Guise, and

James of Savoy Duke of Nemours would hold an open tournament against

all comers. The first combat to be on horse-back in the lists, with

double armour, to break four lances, and one for the ladies; the second

combat with swords, one to one, or two to two, as the judges of the

field should direct; the third combat on foot, three pushes of pikes,

and six hits with the sword. The champions to furnish lances, swords,

and pikes, at the choice of the combatants. Whoever did not manage his

horse in the carreer to be put out of the lists; four judges of the

field to give orders. The combatants who should break most lances and

perform best to carry the prize, the value whereof to be at the

discretion of the judges; all the combatants, as well French as

strangers, to be obliged to touch one or more, at their choice, of the

shields that should hang on the pillar at the end of the lists, where a

herald at arms should be ready to receive them, and enroll them

according to their quality, and the shields they had touched; the

combatants to be obliged to cause their shields and arms to be brought

by a gentleman and hung up at the pillar three days before the

tournament, otherwise not to be admitted without leave of the champions.

A spacious list was made near the Bastille, which begun from the

Chateau des Tournelles and crossed the street of St. Anthony, and

extended as far as the King's stables; on both sides were built

scaffolds and amphitheatres, which formed a sort of galleries that made

a very fine sight, and were capable of containing an infinite number of

people. The princes and lords were wholly taken up in providing what

was necessary for a splendid appearance, and in mingling in their

cyphers and devices somewhat of gallantry that had relation to the

ladies they were in love with.

A few days before the Duke of Alva's arrival, the King made a match at

tennis with the Duke de Nemours, the Chevalier de Guise, and the

Viscount de Chartres. The Queens came to see them play, attended with

the ladies of the Court, and among others Madam de Cleves. After the

game was ended, as they went out of the tennis court, Chatelart came up

to the Queen-Dauphin, and told her fortune had put into his hands a

letter of gallantry, that dropped out of the Duke de Nemours's pocket.

This Queen, who was always very curious in what related to the Duke,

bid Chatelart give her the letter; he did so, and she followed the

Queen her mother-in-law, who was going with the King to see them work

at the lists. After they had been there some time, the King caused

some horses to be brought that had been lately taken in, and though

they were not as yet thoroughly managed, he was for mounting one of

them, and ordered his attendants to mount others; the King and the Duke

de Nemours hit upon the most fiery and high mettled of them. The

horses were ready to fall foul on one another, when the Duke of

Nemours, for fear of hurting the King, retreated abruptly, and ran back

his horse against a pillar with so much violence that the shock of it

made him stagger. The company ran up to him, and he was thought

considerably hurt; but the Princess of Cleves thought the hurt much

greater than anyone else. The interest she had in it gave her an

apprehension and concern which she took no care to conceal; she came up

to him with the Queens, and with a countenance so changed, that one

less concerned than the Chevalier de Guise might have perceived it:

perceive it he immediately did, and was much more intent upon the

condition Madam de Cleves was in, than upon that of the Duke de

Nemours. The blow the Duke had given himself had so stunned him, that

he continued some time leaning his head on those who supported him;

when he raised himself up, he immediately viewed Madam de Cleves, and

saw in her face the concern she was in for him, and he looked upon her

in a manner which made her sense how much he was touched with it:

afterwards he thanked the Queens for the goodness they had expressed to

him, and made apologies for the condition he had been in before them;

and then the King ordered him to go to rest.

Madam de Cleves, after she was recovered from the fright she had been

in, presently reflected on the tokens she had given of it. The

Chevalier de Guise did not suffer her to continue long in the hope that

nobody had perceived it, but giving her his hand to lead her out of the

lists: "I have more cause to complain, Madam," said he, "than the Duke

de Nemours; pardon me, if I forget for a moment that profound respect I

have always had for you, and show you how much my heart is grieved for

what my eyes have just seen; this is the first time I have ever been so

bold as to speak to you, and it will be the last. Death or at least

eternal absence will remove me from a place where I can live no longer,

since I have now lost the melancholy comfort I had of believing that

all who behold you with love are as unhappy as myself."

Madam de Cleves made only a confused answer, as if she had not

understood what the Chevalier's words meant: at another time she would

have been offended if he had mentioned the passion he had for her; but

at this moment she felt nothing but the affliction to know that he had

observed the passion she had for the Duke de Nemours. The Chevalier de

Guise was so well convinced of it, and so pierced with grief, that from

that moment he took a resolution never to think of being loved by Madam

de Cleves; but that he might the better be able to quit a passion which

he had thought so difficult and so glorious, it was necessary to make

choice of some other undertaking worthy of employing him; he had his

view on Rhodes: the taking of which he had formerly had some idea of;

and when death snatched him away, in the flower of his youth, and at a

time when he had acquired the reputation of one of the greatest Princes

of his age, the only regret he had to part with life was, that he had

not been able to execute so noble a resolution, the success whereof he

thought infallible from the great care he had taken about it.

Madam de Cleves, when she came out of the lists, went to the Queen's

apartment, with her thoughts wholly taken up with what had passed. The

Duke de Nemours came there soon after, richly dressed, and like one

wholly unsensible of the accident that had befallen him; he appeared

even more gay than usual, and the joy he was in for what he had

discovered, gave him an air that very much increased his natural

agreeableness. The whole Court was surprised when he came in; and

there was nobody but asked him how he did, except Madam de Cleves, who

stayed near the chimney pretending not to see him. The King coming out

of his closet, and seeing him among others called him to talk to him

about his late accident. The Duke passed by Madam de Cleves, and said

softly to her, "Madam, I have received this day some marks of your

pity, but they were not such as I am most worthy of." Madam de Cleves

suspected that he had taken notice of the concern she had been in for

him, and what he now said convinced her she was not mistaken; it gave

her a great deal of concern to find she was so little mistress of

herself as not to have been able to conceal her inclinations from the

Chevalier de Guise; nor was she the less concerned to see that the Duke

de Nemours was acquainted with them; yet this last grief was not so

entire, but there was a certain mixture of pleasure in it.

The Queen-Dauphin, who was extremely impatient to know what there was

in the letter which Chatelart had given her, came up to Madam de

Cleves. "Go read this letter," says she; "'tis addressed to the Duke

de Nemours, and was probably sent him by the mistress for whom he has

forsaken all others; if you can't read it now, keep it, and bring it me

about bedtime and inform me if you know the hand." Having said this,

the Queen-Dauphin went away from Madam de Cleves, and left her in such

astonishment, that she was not able for some time to stir out of the

place. The impatience and grief she was in not permitting her to stay

at Court, she went home before her usual hour of retirement; she

trembled with the letter in her hand, her thoughts were full of

confusion, and she experienced I know not what of insupportable grief,

that she had never felt before. No sooner was she in her closet, but

she opened the letter and found it as follows:

I have loved you too well to leave you in a belief that the change you

observe in me is an effect of lightness; I must inform you that your

falsehood is the cause of it; you will be surprised to hear me speak of

your falsehood; you have dissembled it with so much skill, and I have

taken so much care to conceal my knowledge of it from you, that you

have reason to be surprised at the discovery; I am myself in wonder,

that I have discovered nothing of it to you before; never was grief

equal to mine; I thought you had the most violent passion for me, I did

not conceal that which I had for you, and at the time that I

acknowledged it to you without reserve, I found that you deceived me,

that you loved another, and that in all probability I was made a

sacrifice to this new mistress. I knew it the day you run at the ring,

and this was the reason I was not there; at first I pretended an

indisposition in order to conceal my sorrow, but afterwards I really

fell into one, nor could a constitution delicate like mine support so

violent a shock. When I began to be better, I still counterfeited

sickness, that I might have an excuse for not seeing and for not

writing to you; besides I was willing to have time to come to a

resolution in what manner to deal with you; I took and quitted the same

resolution twenty times; but at last I concluded you deserved not to

see my grief, and I resolved not to show you the least mark of it. I

had a desire to bring down your pride, by letting you see, that my

passion for you declined of itself: I thought I should by this lessen

the value of the sacrifice you had made of me, and was loth you should

have the pleasure of appearing more amiable in the eyes of another, by

showing her how much I loved you; I resolved to write to you in a cold

and languishing manner, that she, to whom you gave my letters, might

perceive my love was at an end: I was unwilling she should have the

satisfaction of knowing I was sensible that she triumphed over me, or

that she should increase her triumph by my despair and complaints. I

thought I should punish you too little by merely breaking with you, and

that my ceasing to love you would give you but a slight concern, after

you had first forsaken me; I found it was necessary you should love me,

to feel the smart of not being loved, which I so severely experienced

myself; I was of opinion that if anything could rekindle that flame, it

would be to let you see that mine was extinguished, but to let you see

it through an endeavour to conceal it from you, as if I wanted the

power to acknowledge it to you: this resolution I adhered to; I found

it difficult to take, and when I saw you again I thought it impossible

to execute. I was ready a hundred times to break out into tears and

complaints; my ill state of health, which still continued, served as a

disguise to hide from you the affliction and trouble I was in;

afterward I was supported by the pleasure of dissembling with you, as

you had done with me; however it was doing so apparent a violence to

myself to tell you or to write to you that I loved you, that you

immediately perceived I had no mind to let you see my affection was

altered; you was touched with this, you complained of it; I endeavoured

to remove your fears, but it was done in so forced a manner, that you

were still more convinced by it, I no longer loved you; in short, I did

all I intended to do. The fantasticalness of your heart was such, that

you advanced towards me in proportion as you saw I retreated from you.

I have enjoyed all the pleasure which can arise from revenge; I plainly

saw, that you loved me more than you had ever done, and I showed you I

had no longer any love for you. I had even reason to believe that you

had entirely abandoned her, for whom you had forsaken me; I had ground

too to be satisfied you had never spoken to her concerning me; but

neither your discretion in that particular, nor the return of your

affection can make amends for your inconstancy; your heart has been

divided between me and another, and you have deceived me; this is

sufficient wholly to take from me the pleasure I found in being loved

by you, as I thought I deserved to be, and to confirm me in the

resolution I have taken never to see you more, which you are so much

surprised at.

Madam de Cleves read this letter, and read it over again several times,

without knowing at the same time what she had read; she saw only that

the Duke de Nemours did not love her as she imagined and that he loved

others who were no less deceived by him than she. What a discovery was

this for a person in her condition, who had a violent passion, who had

just given marks of it to a man whom she judged unworthy of it, and to

another whom she used ill for his sake! Never was affliction so

cutting as hers; she imputed the piercingness of it to what had

happened that day, and believed that if the Duke de Nemours had not had

ground to believe she loved him she should not have cared whether he

loved another or not; but she deceived herself, and this evil which she

found so insupportable was jealousy with all the horrors it can be

accompanied with. This letter discovered to her a piece of gallantry

the Duke de Nemours had been long engaged in; she saw the lady who

wrote it was a person of wit and merit, and deserved to be loved; she

found she had more courage than herself, and envied her the power she

had had of concealing her sentiments from the Duke de Nemours; by the

close of the letter, she saw this lady thought herself beloved, and

presently suspected that the discretion the Duke had showed in his

addresses to her, and which she had been so much taken with, was only

an effect of his passion for this other mistress, whom he was afraid of

disobliging; in short, she thought of everything that could add to her

grief and despair. What reflections did she not make on herself, and

on the advices her mother had given her I how did she repent, that she

had not persisted in her resolution of retiring, though against the

will of Monsieur de Cleves, or that she had not pursued her intentions

of acknowledging to him the inclination she had for the Duke of

Nemours! She was convinced, she would have done better to discover it

to a husband, whose goodness she was sensible of, and whose interest it

would have been to conceal it, than to let it appear to a man who was

unworthy of it, who deceived her, who perhaps made a sacrifice of her,

and who had no view in being loved by her but to gratify his pride and

vanity; in a word, she found, that all the calamities that could befall

her, and all the extremities she could be reduced to, were less than

that single one of having discovered to the Duke de Nemours that she

loved him, and of knowing that he loved another: all her comfort was to

think, that after the knowledge of this she had nothing more to fear

from herself, and that she should be entirely eased of the inclination

she had for the Duke.

She never thought of the orders the Queen-Dauphin had given her, to

come to her when she went to rest: she went to bed herself, and

pretended to be ill; so that when Monsieur de Cleves came home from the

King, they told him she was asleep. But she was far from that

tranquillity which inclines to sleep; all the night she did nothing but

torment herself, and read over and over the letter in her hand.

Madam de Cleves was not the only person whom this letter disturbed.

The Viscount de Chartres, who had lost it and not the Duke de Nemours,

was in the utmost inquietude about it. He had been that evening with

the Duke of Guise, who had given a great entertainment to the Duke of

Ferrara his brother-in-law, and to all the young people of the Court:

it happened that the discourse turned upon ingenious letters; and the

Viscount de Chartres said he had one about him the finest that ever was

writ: they urged him to show it, and on his excusing himself, the Duke

de Nemours insisted he had no such letter, and that what he said was

only out of vanity; the Viscount made him answer, that he urged his

discretion to the utmost, that nevertheless he would not show the

letter; but he would read some parts of it, which would make it appear

few men received the like. Having said this, he would have taken out

the letter, but could not find it; he searched for it to no purpose.

The company rallied him about it; but he seemed so disturbed, that they

forbore to speak further of it; he withdrew sooner than the others, and

went home with great impatience, to see if he had not left the letter

there. While he was looking for it, one of the Queen's pages came to

tell him, that the Viscountess d'Usez had thought it necessary to give

him speedy advice, that it was said at the Queen's Court, that he had

dropped a letter of gallantry out of his pocket while he was playing at

tennis; that great part of what the letter contained had been related,

that the Queen had expressed a great curiosity to see it, and had sent

to one of her gentlemen for it, but that he answered, he had given it

to Chatelart.

The page added many other particulars which heightened the Viscount's

concern; he went out that minute to go to a gentleman who was an

intimate friend of Chatelart's; and though it was a very unseasonable

hour, made him get out of bed to go and fetch the letter, without

letting him know who it was had sent for it, or who had lost it.

Chatelart, who was prepossessed with an opinion that it belonged to the

Duke of Nemours, and that the Duke was in love with the Queen-Dauphin,

did not doubt but it was he who had sent to redemand it, and so

answered with a malicious sort of joy, that he had put the letter into

the Queen-Dauphin's hands. The gentleman brought this answer back to

the Viscount de Chartres, which increased the uneasiness he was under

already, and added new vexations to it: after having continued some

time in an irresolution what to do, he found that the Duke de Nemours

was the only person whose assistance could draw him out of this

intricate affair.

Accordingly he went to the Duke's house, and entered his room about

break of day. What the Duke had discovered the day before with respect

to the Princess of Cleves had given him such agreeable ideas, that he

slept very sweetly; he was very much surprised to find himself waked by

the Viscount de Chartres, and asked him if he came to disturb his rest

so early, to be revenged of him for what he had said last night at

supper. The Viscount's looks soon convinced him, that he came upon a

serious business; "I am come," said he, "to entrust you with the most

important affair of my life; I know very well, you are not obliged to

me for the confidence I place in you, because I do it at a time when I

stand in need of your assistance; but I know likewise, that I should

have lost your esteem, if I had acquainted you with all I am now going

to tell you, without having been forced to it by absolute necessity: I

have dropped the letter I spoke of last night; it is of the greatest

consequence to me, that nobody should know it is addressed to me; it

has been seen by abundance of people, who were at the tennis court

yesterday when I dropped it; you was there too, and the favour I have

to ask you, is, to say it was you who lost it." "Sure you think,"

replied the Duke de Nemours smiling, "that I have no mistress, by

making such a proposal, and that I have no quarrels or inconveniences

to apprehend by leaving it to be believed that I receive such letters."

"I beg you," said the Viscount, "to hear me seriously; if you have a

mistress, as I doubt not you have, though I do not know who she is, it

will be easy for you to justify yourself, and I'll put you into an

infallible way of doing it. As for you, though you should fail in

justifying yourself, it can cost you nothing but a short falling out;

but for my part, this accident affects me in a very different manner, I

shall dishonour a person who has passionately loved me, and is one of

the most deserving women in the world; on the other side, I shall draw

upon myself an implacable hatred that will ruin my fortune, and perhaps

proceed somewhat further." "I do not comprehend what you say," replied

the Duke de Nemours, "but I begin to see that the reports we have had

of your interest in a great Princess are not wholly without ground."

"They are not," replied the Viscount, "but I would to God they were:

you would not see me in the perplexity I am in; but I must relate the

whole affair to you, to convince you how much I have to fear.

"Ever since I came to Court, the Queen has treated me with a great deal

of favour and distinction, and I had grounds to believe that she was

very kindly disposed towards me: there was nothing, however, particular

in all this, and I never presumed to entertain any thoughts of her but

what were full of respect; so far from it, that I was deeply in love

with Madam de Themines; anyone that sees her may easily judge, 'tis

very possible for one to be greatly in love with her, when one is

beloved by her, and so I was. About two years ago, the Court being at

Fontainebleau, I was two or three times in conversation with the Queen,

at hours when there were very few people in her apartment: it appeared

to me, that my turn of wit was agreeable to her, and I observed she

always approved what I said. One day among others she fell into a

discourse concerning confidence. I said there was nobody in whom I

entirely confided, that I found people always repented of having done

so, and that I knew a great many things of which I had never spoke: the

Queen told me, she esteemed me the more for it, that she had not found

in France anyone that could keep a secret, and that this was what had

embarrassed her more than anything else, because it had deprived her of

the pleasure of having a confidant; that nothing was so necessary in

life as to have somebody one could open one's mind to with safety,

especially for people of her rank. Afterwards she frequently resumed

the same discourse, and acquainted me with very particular

circumstances; at last I imagined she was desirous to learn my secrets,

and to entrust me with her own; this thought engaged me strictly to

her. I was so pleased with this distinction that I made my court to

her with greater assiduity than usual. One evening the King and the

ladies of the Court rode out to take the air in the forest, but the

Queen, being a little indisposed did not go; I stayed to wait upon her,

and she walked down to the pond-side, and dismissed her gentlemen

ushers, that she might be more at liberty. After she had taken a few

turns she came up to me, and bid me follow her; 'I would speak with

you,' says she, 'and by what I shall say you will see I am your

friend.' She stopped here, and looking earnestly at me; 'You are in

love,' continued she, 'and because perhaps you have made nobody your

confidant, you think that your love is not known; but it is known, and

even by persons who are interested in it: you are observed, the place

where you see your mistress is discovered, and there's a design to

surprise you; I don't know who she is, nor do I ask you to tell me, I

would only secure you from the misfortunes into which you may fall.'

See, I beseech you, what a snare the Queen laid for me, and how

difficult it was for me not to fall into it; she had a mind to know if

I was in love, and as she did not ask me who I was in love with, but

let me see her intention was only to serve me, I had no suspicion that

she spoke either out of curiosity or by design.

"Nevertheless, contrary to all probability, I saw into the bottom of

the matter; I was in love with Madam de Themines, but though she loved

me again, I was not happy enough to have private places to see her in

without danger of being discovered there, and so I was satisfied she

could not be the person the Queen meant; I knew also, that I had an

intrigue with another woman less handsome and less reserved than Madam

de Themines, and that it was not impossible but the place where I saw

her might be discovered; but as this was a business I little cared for,

it was easy for me to guard against all sorts of danger by forbearing

to see her; I resolved therefore to acknowledge nothing of it to the

Queen, but to assure her on the contrary that I had a long time laid

aside the desire of gaining women's affections, even where I might hope

for success, because I found them all in some measure unworthy of

engaging the heart of an honourable man, and that it must be something

very much above them which could touch me. 'You do not answer me

ingenuously,' replied the Queen; 'I am satisfied of the contrary; the

free manner in which I speak to you ought to oblige you to conceal

nothing from me; I would have you,' continued she, 'be of the number of

my friends; but I would not, after having admitted you into that rank,

be ignorant of your engagements; consider, whether you think my

friendship will be too dear at the price of making me your confidant; I

give you two days to think on it; but then, consider well of the answer

you shall make me, and remember that if ever I find hereafter you have

deceived me, I shall never forgive you as long as I live.'

"Having said this, the Queen left me without waiting for my answer; you

may imagine how full my thoughts were of what she had said to me; the

two days she had given me to consider of it I did not think too long a

time to come to a resolution; I found she had a mind to know if I was

in love, and that her desire was I should not be so; I foresaw the

consequences of what I was going to do, my vanity was flattered with

the thought of having a particular interest with the Queen, and a Queen

whose person is still extremely amiable; on the other hand, I was in

love with Madam de Themines, and though I had committed a petty treason

against her by my engagement with the other woman I told you of, I

could not find in my heart to break with her; I foresaw also the danger

I should expose myself to, if I deceived the Queen, and how hard it

would be to do it; nevertheless I could not resolve to refuse what

fortune offered me, and was willing to run the hazard of anything my

ill conduct might draw upon me; I broke with her with whom I kept a

correspondence that might be discovered, and was in hopes of concealing

that I had with Madam de Themines.

"At the two days' end, as I entered the room where the Queen was with

all the ladies about her, she said aloud to me, and with a grave air

that was surprising enough, 'Have you thought of the business I charged

you with, and do you know the truth of it?' 'Yes, Madam,' answered I,

'and 'tis as I told your Majesty.' 'Come in the evening, when I am

writing,' replied she, 'and you shall have further orders.' I made a

respectful bow without answering anything, and did not fail to attend

at the hour she had appointed me. I found her in the gallery, with her

secretary and one of her women. As soon as she saw me she came to me,

and took me to the other end of the gallery; 'Well,' says she, 'after

having considered thoroughly of this matter, have you nothing to say to

me, and as to my manner of treating you, does not it deserve that you

should deal sincerely with me?' 'It is, Madam,' answered I, 'because I

deal sincerely, that I have nothing more to say, and I swear to your

Majesty with all the respect I owe you, that I have no engagement with

any woman of the Court.' 'I will believe it,' replied the Queen,

'because I wish it; and I wish it, because I desire to have you

entirely mine, and because it would be impossible for me to be

satisfied with your friendship, if you were in love; one cannot confide

in those who are; one cannot be secure of their secrecy; they are too

much divided, and their mistresses have always the first place in their

thoughts, which does not suit at all with the manner in which I would

have you live with me: remember then, it is upon your giving me your

word that you have no engagement, that I choose you for my confidant;

remember, I insist on having you entirely to myself, and that you shall

have no friend of either sex but such as I shall approve, and that you

abandon every care but that of pleasing me; I'll not desire you to

neglect any opportunity for advancing your fortune; I'll conduct your

interests with more application than you can yourself, and whatever I

do for you, I shall think myself more than recompensed, if you answer

my expectations; I make choice of you, to open my heart's griefs to

you, and to have your assistance in softening them; you may imagine

they are not small; I bear in appearance without much concern the

King's engagement with the Duchess of Valentinois, but it is

insupportable to me; she governs the King, she imposes upon him, she

slights me, all my people are at her beck. The Queen, my

daughter-in-law, proud of her beauty, and the authority of her uncles,

pays me no respect. The Constable Montmorency is master of the King and

kingdom; he hates me, and has given proofs of his hatred, which I shall

never forget. The Mareschal de St. Andre is a bold young favourite,

who uses me no better than the others. The detail of my misfortunes

would move your pity; hitherto I have not dared to confide in anybody,

I confide in you, take care that I never repent it, and be my only

consolation.' The Queen blushed, when she had ended this discourse,

and I was so truly touched with the goodness she had expressed to me,

that I was going to throw myself at her feet: from that day she has

placed an entire confidence in me, she has done nothing without

advising with me, and the intimacy and union between us still subsists.