DESPAIR.
As soon as the king had left her, La Valliere raised herself from the
ground, and extended her arms, as if to follow and detain him; but when,
having violently closed the door, the sound of his retreating footsteps
could be heard in the distance, she had hardly sufficient strength left
to totter toward and fall at the foot of her crucifix. There she
remained, brokenhearted, absorbed and overwhelmed by her grief,
forgetful of and indifferent to everything but her profound grief
itself--a grief which she could not comprehend otherwise than by
instinct and acute sensation. In the midst of the wild tumult of her
thoughts, La Valliere heard her door open again; she started, and turned
round, thinking that it was the king who had returned. She was deceived,
however, for it was Madame who appeared at the door. What did she now
care for Madame! Again she sank down, her head supported by her
_prie-dieu_ chair. It was Madame, agitated, irritated and threatening.
But what was that to her?
"Mademoiselle," said the princess, standing before La Valliere, "this is
very fine, I admit, to kneel, and pray, and make a pretense of being
religious; but however submissive you may be in your addresses to
Heaven, it is desirable that you should pay some little attention to the
wishes of those who reign and rule here below."
La Valliere raised her head painfully in token of respect.
"Not long since," continued Madame, "a certain recommendation was
addressed to you, I believe."
La Valliere's fixed and wild gaze showed how entire her forgetfulness or
her ignorance was.
"The queen recommended you," continued Madame, "to conduct yourself in
such a manner that no one could be justified in spreading any reports
about you."
La Valliere darted an inquiring look toward her.
"I will not," continued Madame, "allow my household, which is that of
the first princess of the blood, to set an evil example to the court;
you would be the cause of such an example. I beg you to understand,
therefore, in the absence of any witness of your shame, for I do not
wish to humiliate you, that you are from this moment at perfect liberty
to leave, and that you can return to your mother at Blois."
La Valliere could not sink lower, nor could she suffer more than she had
already suffered. Her countenance did not even change, but she remained
with her hands crossed over her knees like the figure of the Magdalen.
"Did you hear me?" said Madame.
A shiver, which passed through her whole frame, was La Valliere's only
reply; and as the victim gave no other sign of life, Madame left the
room. And then, her very respiration suspended, and her blood almost
congealed, as it were, in her veins, La Valliere by degrees felt that
the pulsations of her wrists, her neck, and temples began to throb more
and more heavily. These pulsations, as they gradually increased, soon
changed into a species of brain fever, and in her temporary delirium
she saw the figures of her friends contending with her enemies, floating
before her vision. She heard, too, mingled together in her deafened
ears, words of menace and words of fond affection; she seemed raised out
of her first existence as though it were upon the wings of a mighty
tempest, and in the dim horizon of the path along which her delirium
hurried her, she saw the stone which covered her tomb upraised, and the
dark and appalling interior of eternal night revealed to her distracted
gaze. But the horror of the dream which had possessed her senses soon
faded away, and she was again restored to the habitual resignation of
her character. A ray of hope penetrated her heart, as a ray of sunlight
streams into the dungeon of some unhappy captive. Her mind reverted to
the journey from Fontainebleau; she saw the king riding beside her
carriage, telling her that he loved her, asking for her love in return,
requiring her to swear, and himself swearing too, that never should an
evening pass by, if ever a misunderstanding were to arise between them,
without a visit, a letter, a sign of some kind, being sent, to replace
the troubled anxiety of the evening by the calm repose of the night. It
was the king who had suggested that, who had imposed a promise upon her,
who had himself sworn it also. It was impossible, therefore, she
reasoned, that the king should fail in keeping the promise which he had
himself exacted from her, unless, indeed, the king were a despot who
enforced love as he enforced obedience; unless, too, the king were truly
indifferent, that the first obstacle in his way were sufficient to
arrest his further progress. The king, that kind protector, who by a
word, by a single word, could relieve her distress of mind, the king
even joined her persecutors. Oh! his anger could not possibly last. Now
that he was alone, he would be suffering all that she herself was a prey
to. But he was not tied hand and foot as she was; he could act, could
move about, could come to her, while she could do nothing but wait. And
the poor girl waited, and waited, with breathless anxiety, for she
could not believe it possible that the king would not come.
It was now about half-past ten. He would either come to her, or write to
her, or send some kind word by M. de Saint-Aignan. If he were to come,
oh! how she would fly to meet him; how she would thrust aside that
excess of delicacy which she now discovered was misunderstood; how
eagerly she would explain: "It is not I who do not love you, it is the
fault of others who will not allow me to love you." And then it must be
confessed that as she reflected upon it, and also the more she
reflected, Louis appeared to her to be less guilty. In fact, he was
ignorant of everything. What must he have thought of the obstinacy with
which she remained silent? Impatient and irritable as the king was known
to be, it was extraordinary that he had been able to preserve his temper
so long. And yet, had it been her own case, she undoubtedly would not
have acted in such a manner; she would have understood everything, have
guessed everything. Yes, but she was nothing but a poor simple-minded
girl, and not a great and powerful monarch. Oh! if he did but come, if
he would but come!--how eagerly she would forgive him for all he had
just made her suffer! how much more tenderly she would love him because
she had so suffered! And so she sat, with her head bent forward in eager
expectation toward the door, her lips slightly parted, as if--and Heaven
forgive her for the thought, she mentally exclaimed--they were awaiting
the kiss which the king's lips had in the morning so sweetly indicated,
when he pronounced the word _love_! If the king did not come, at least
he would write! it was a second chance; a chance less delightful
certainly than the other, but which would show an affection just as
strong, but only more timorous in its nature. Oh! how she would devour
his letter, how eager she would be to answer it; and when the messenger
who had brought it had left her, how she would kiss, read over and over
again, press upon her heart the happy paper which would have brought her
ease of mind, tranquillity, and perfect happiness. At all events, if
the king did not come; if, however, the king did not write, he could not
do otherwise than send Saint-Aignan, or Saint-Aignan could not do
otherwise than come of his own accord. Even if it were a third person,
how openly she would speak to him; the royal presence would not be there
to freeze her words upon her tongue, and then no suspicious feeling
would remain a moment longer in the king's heart.
Everything with La Valliere, heart and look, body and mind, was
concentrated in eager expectation. She said to herself that there was an
hour left in which to indulge hope; that until midnight had struck, the
king might come, or write, or send; that at midnight only would every
expectation be useless, every hope lost. Whenever there was any noise in
the palace, the poor girl fancied she was the cause of it; whenever she
heard any one pass in the courtyard below, she imagined they were
messengers of the king coming to her. Eleven o'clock struck; then a
quarter past eleven: then half-past. The minutes dragged slowly on in
this anxiety, and yet they seemed to pass far too quickly. And now, it
struck a quarter to twelve. Midnight, midnight was near, the last, the
final hope which remained, came in its turn. With the last stroke of the
clock, the last ray of light seemed to fade away; and with the last ray,
so faded her final hope. And so, the king himself had deceived her; it
was he who had been the first to fail in keeping the oath which he had
sworn that very day; twelve hours only between his oath and his perjured
vow; it was not long, certainly, to have preserved the illusion. And so,
not only did the king not love her, but still more, he despised her whom
every one overwhelmed; he despised her to the extent even of abandoning
her to the shame of an expulsion which was equivalent to having an
ignominious sentence passed upon her; and yet, it was he, the king
himself, who was the first cause of this ignominy. A bitter smile, the
only symptom of anger which during this long conflict had passed across
the victim's angelic face, appeared upon her lips. What, in fact, now
remained on earth for her, after the king was lost to her? Nothing. But
Heaven still remained, and her thoughts flew thither. She prayed that
the proper course for her to follow might be suggested. "It is from
Heaven," she thought, "that I do expect everything; it is from Heaven I
ought to expect everything." And she looked at her crucifix with a
devotion full of tender love. "There," she said, "hangs before me a
Master who never forgets and never abandons those who do not abandon and
who do not forget Him; it is to Him alone that we must sacrifice
ourselves." And, thereupon, could any one have gazed into the recesses
of that chamber, they would have seen the poor despairing girl adopt a
final resolution, and determine upon one last plan in her mind.
Thereupon, and as her knees were no longer able to support her, she
gradually sank down upon the _prie-dieu_, and with her head pressed
against the wooden cross, her eyes fixed, and her respiration short and
quick, she watched for the earliest rays of approaching daylight. At two
o'clock in the morning she was still in the same bewilderment of mind,
or rather in the same ecstasy of feeling. Her thoughts had almost ceased
to hold any communion with the things of this world. And when she saw
the violet tints of early dawn visible upon the roofs of the palace, and
vaguely revealing the outlines of the ivory cross which she held
embraced, she rose from the ground with a new-born strength, kissed the
feet of the divine martyr, descended the staircase leading from the
room, and wrapped herself from head to foot in a mantle as she went
along. She reached the wicket at the very moment the guard of musketeers
opened the gate to admit the first relief-guard belonging to one of the
Swiss regiments. And then, gliding behind the soldiers, she reached the
street before the officer in command of the patrol had even thought of
asking who the young girl was who was making her escape from the palace
at so early an hour.