CHAILLOT.
Although they had not been summoned, Manicamp and Malicorne had followed
the king and D'Artagnan. They were both exceedingly intelligent men,
except that Malicorne was generally too precipitate, owing to his
ambition, while Manicamp was frequently too tardy, owing to his
idleness. On this occasion, however, they arrived at precisely the
proper moment. Five horses were waiting in readiness. Two were seized
upon by the king and D'Artagnan, two others by Manicamp and Malicorne,
while a groom belonging to the stables mounted the fifth. The whole
cavalcade set off at a gallop. D'Artagnan had been very careful in his
selection of the horses; they were the very horses for distressed
lovers--horses which did not simply run, but flew. Within ten minutes
after their departure, the cavalcade, amid a cloud of dust, arrived at
Chaillot. The king literally threw himself off his horse, but,
notwithstanding the rapidity with which he accomplished this maneuver,
he found D'Artagnan already holding his stirrup. With a sign of
acknowledgment to the musketeer, he threw the bridle to the groom, then
darted into the vestibule, violently pushed open the door, and entered
the reception-room. Manicamp, Malicorne, and the groom, remained
outside, D'Artagnan alone following him. When he entered the
reception-room, the first object which met his gaze was Louise herself,
not simply on her knees, but lying at the foot of a large stone
crucifix. The young girl was stretched upon the damp flag-stones,
scarcely visible in the gloom of the apartment, which was lighted only
by means of a narrow window, protected by bars, and completely shaded by
creeping plants. She was alone, inanimate, cold as the stone to which
she was clinging.
When the king saw her in this state, he thought she was dead, and
uttered a loud cry, which made D'Artagnan hurry into the room. The king
had already passed one of his arms round her body, and D'Artagnan
assisted him in raising the poor girl, whom the torpor of death seemed
already to have taken possession of. D'Artagnan seized hold of the
alarm-bell, and rang with all his might. The Carmelite sisters
immediately hastened at the summons, and uttered loud exclamations of
alarm and indignation at the sight of the two men holding a woman in
their arms. The superior also hurried to the scene of action; but, far
more a creature of the world than any of the female members of the
court, notwithstanding her austerity of manners, she recognized the king
at the first glance, by the respect which those present exhibited for
him, as well as by the imperious and authoritative way in which he had
thrown the whole establishment into confusion. As soon as she saw the
king, she retired to her own apartments, in order to avoid compromising
her dignity. But, by one of the nuns, she sent various cordials--Hungary
water, etc., etc.--and ordered that all the doors should be immediately
closed, a command which was just in time, for the king's distress was
fast becoming of a most clamorous and despairing character. He had
almost decided to send for his own physician, when La Valliere exhibited
signs of returning animation. The first object which met her gaze, as
she opened her eyes, was the king at her feet; in all probability she
did not recognize him, for she uttered a deep sigh full of anguish and
distress. Louis fixed his eyes devouringly upon her face; and when, in
the course of a few moments, she recognized the king, she endeavored to
tear herself from his embrace.
"Oh, heavens!" she murmured, "is not the sacrifice yet made?"
"No, no," exclaimed the king, "and it shall not be made, I swear."
Notwithstanding her weakness and utter despair, she rose from the
ground, saying, "It must be made, however; it must be; so do not stay me
in my purpose!"
"I leave you to sacrifice yourself! I! never, never!" exclaimed the
king.
"Well," murmured D'Artagnan, "I may as well go now. As soon as they
begin to speak, we may as well save their having any listeners." And he
quitted the room, leaving the two lovers alone.
"Sire," continued La Valliere, "not another word, I implore you. Do not
destroy the only future I can hope for--my salvation; do not destroy the
glory and brightness of your own future for a mere caprice."
"A caprice!" cried the king.
"Oh! sire, it is now only that I can clearly see into your heart."
"You, Louise, what mean you?"
"An inexplicable impulse, foolish and unreasonable in its nature, may
momentarily appear to offer a sufficient excuse for your conduct; but
there are duties imposed upon you which are incompatible with your
regard for a poor girl such as I am. So forget me."
"I forget you!"
"You have already done so."
"Rather would I die."
"You cannot love one whose peace of mind you hold so lightly, and whom
you so cruelly abandoned last night to the bitterness of death."
"What can you mean? Explain yourself. Louise."
"What did you ask me yesterday morning? To love you. What did you
promise me in return? Never to let midnight pass without offering me an
opportunity of reconciliation whenever your anger might be aroused
against me."
"Oh! forgive me, Louise, forgive me! I was almost mad from jealousy."
"Jealousy is an unworthy thought, sire. You may become jealous again,
and will end by killing me. Be merciful, then, and leave me now to die."
"Another word, mademoiselle, in that strain, and you will see me expire
at your feet."
"No, no, sire, I am better acquainted with my own demerits; and believe
me, that to sacrifice yourself for one whom all despise would be
needless."
"Give me the names of those you have cause to complain of."
"I have no complaints, sire, to prefer against any one--no one but
myself to accuse. Farewell, sire; you are compromising yourself in
speaking to me in such a manner."
"Oh! be careful, Louise, in what you say; for you are reducing me to the
very depths of despair."
"Oh! sire, sire, leave me to the protection of Heaven, I implore you."
"No, no; Heaven itself shall not tear you from me."
"Save me, then," cried the poor girl, "from those determined and
pitiless enemies who are thirsting to destroy my very life and honor
too. If you have courage enough to love me, show at least that you have
power enough to defend me. But no: she whom you say you love, others
insult and mock, and drive shamelessly away." And the gentle-hearted
girl, forced by her own bitter distress to accuse others, wrung her
hands in an uncontrollable agony of tears.
"You have been driven away!" exclaimed the king. "This is the second
time I have heard that said."
"I have been driven away with shame and ignominy, sire. You see, then,
that I have no other protector but Heaven, no consolation but prayer,
and this cloister is my only refuge."
"My palace, my whole court, shall be yours. Oh! fear nothing further
now, Louise: those, be they men or women, who yesterday drove you away,
shall to-morrow tremble before you--to-morrow, do I say? Nay, this very
day have I already shown my displeasure--have already threatened. It is
in my power, even now, to hurl the thunderbolt which I have hitherto
withheld. Louise, Louise, you shall be cruelly revenged; tears of blood
shall repay you for the tears you have shed. Give me only the names of
your enemies."
"Never, never."
"How can I show my anger, then?"
"Sire, those upon whom your anger would have to fall would force you to
draw back your hand upraised to punish."
"Oh! you do not know me," cried the king, exasperated. "Rather than draw
back, I would sacrifice my kingdom, and would curse my family. Yes, I
would strike until this arm had utterly annihilated all those who had
ventured to make themselves the enemies of the gentlest and best of
creatures." And, as he said these words, Louis struck his fist violently
against the oaken wainscoting with a force which alarmed La Valliere:
for his anger, owing to his unbounded power, had something imposing and
threatening in it, and like the tempest, might be mortal in its effects.
She, who thought that her own sufferings could not be surpassed, was
overwhelmed by a suffering which revealed itself by menace and by
violence.
"Sire," she said, "for the last time I implore you to leave me; already
do I feel strengthened by the calm seclusion of this asylum: and the
protection of Heaven has reassured me: for all the petty human
meannesses of this world are forgotten beneath the Divine protection.
Once more, then, sire, and for the last time, I again implore you to
leave me."
"Confess, rather," cried Louis, "that you have never loved me; admit
that my humility and my repentance are flattering to your pride: but
that my distress affects you not; that the king of this wide realm is no
longer regarded as a lover whose tenderness of devotion is capable of
working out your happiness: but that he is a despot whose caprice has
utterly destroyed in your heart the very last fiber of human feeling. Do
not say you are seeking Heaven, say rather that you are fleeing the
king."
Louise's heart was wrung within her, as she listened to his passionate
utterance, which made the fever of passion course through every vein in
her body. "But did you not hear me say that I, have been driven away,
scorned, despised?"
"I will make you the most respected, the most adored, and the most
envied of my whole court."
"Prove to me that you have not ceased to love me."
"In what way?"
"By leaving me."
"I will prove it to you by never leaving you again."
"But do you imagine, sire, that I shall allow that: do you imagine that
I will let you come to an open rupture with every member of your family:
do you imagine that, for my sake, you could abandon mother, wife, and
sister?"
"Ah? you have named them, then, at last: it is they, then, who have
wrought this grievous injury? By the heaven above us, then, upon them
shall my anger fall."
"That is the reason why the future terrifies me, why I refuse
everything, why I do not wish you to revenge me. Tears enough have
already been shed, sufficient sorrow and affliction have already been
occasioned. I, at least, will never be the cause of sorrow, or
affliction, or distress, to whomsoever it may be, for I have mourned and
suffered, and wept too much myself."
"And do you count my sufferings, my distress, and my tears, as nothing?"
"In Heaven's name, sire, do not speak to me in that manner. I need all
my courage to enable me to accomplish the sacrifice."
"Louise, Louise, I implore you! whatever you desire, whatever you
command, whether vengeance or forgiveness, your slightest wish shall be
obeyed, but do not abandon me."
"Alas! sire, we must part."
"You do not love me, then!"
"Heaven knows I do!"
"It is false, Louise; it is false."
"Oh! sire, if I did not love you I should let you do what you please: I
should let you revenge me, in return for the insult which has been
inflicted on me; I should accept the sweet triumph to my pride which you
propose: and yet, you cannot deny, that I reject even the sweet
compensation which your affection affords, that affection, which for me
is life itself, for I wished to die when I thought that you loved me no
longer."
"Yes, yes: I now know, I now perceive it; you are the holiest, the best,
the purest of women. There is no one so worthy as yourself, not alone of
my own respect and devotion, but also of the respect and devotion of all
who surround me: and therefore shall no one be loved like yourself: no
one shall ever possess the influence over me that you wield. You wish me
to be calm, to forgive: be it so, you shall find me perfectly unmoved.
You wish to reign by gentleness and clemency, I will be clement and
gentle. Dictate to me the conduct you wish me to adopt, and I will obey
blindly."
"In Heaven's name, no, sire; what am I, a poor girl, to dictate to so
great a monarch as yourself?"
"You are my life, the very spirit and principle of my being. Is it not
the spirit that rules the body?"
"You love me, then, sire?"
"On my knees, yes; with my hands upraised to you, yes; with all the
strength and power of my being, yes; I love you so deeply that I would
happily lay down my life for you, at your merest wish."
"Oh! sire, now that I know you love me, I have nothing to wish for in
the whole world. Give me your hand, sire; and then farewell! I have
enjoyed in this life all the happiness which I was destined to meet
with."
"Oh! no, no! your happiness is not a happiness of yesterday, it is of
to-day, of to-morrow, ever-enduring. The future is yours, everything
which is mine is yours too. Away with these ideas of separation, away
with these gloomy, despairing thoughts. You will live for me, as I will
live for you, Louise." And he threw himself at her feet, embracing her
knees with the wildest transports of joy and gratitude.
"Oh! sire, sire! all that is but a wild dream."
"Why a wild dream?"
"Because I cannot return to the court. Exiled, how can I see you again?
Would it not be far better to bury myself in a cloister for the rest of
my life, with the rich consolation that your affection gives me, with
the latest pulses of your heart beating for me, and your latest
confession of attachment still ringing in my ears?"
"Exiled, you!" exclaimed Louis XIV., "and who dares to exile, let me
ask, when I recall?"
"Oh! sire, something which is greater than and superior to kings
even--the world and public opinion. Reflect for a moment; you cannot
love a woman who has been ignominiously driven away--love one, whom your
mother has stained with suspicion; one, whom your sister has threatened
with disgrace; such a woman, indeed, would be unworthy of you."
"Unworthy! one who belongs to me?"
"Yes, sire, precisely on that account; from the very moment she belongs
to you, the character of your mistress renders her unworthy."
"You are right, Louise, every shade of delicacy of feeling is yours.
Very well, you shall not be exiled."
"Ah! from the tone in which you speak, you have not heard Madame, that
is very clear."
"I will appeal from her to my mother."
"Again, sire, you have not seen your mother."
"She, also! poor Louise! every one's hand, then, is against you."
"Yes, yes, poor Louise, who was already bending beneath the fury of the
storm, when you arrived and crushed her beneath the weight of your
displeasure."
"Oh! forgive me."
"You will not, I know, be able to make either of them yield; believe me,
the evil cannot be repaired, for I will not allow you to use violence,
or to exercise your authority."
"Very well, Louise, to prove to you how fondly I love you, I will do one
thing, I will see Madame; I will make her revoke her sentence, I will
compel her to do so."
"Compel? Oh! no, no."
"True; you are right. I will bend her."
Louise shook her head.
"I will entreat her, if it be necessary," said Louis. "Will you believe
in my affection after that?"
Louise drew herself up. "Oh, never, never, shall you humiliate yourself
on my account; sooner, a thousand times, would I die."
Louis reflected, his features assumed a dark expression. "I will love as
much as you have loved; I will suffer as keenly as you have suffered;
this shall be my expiation in your eyes. Come, mademoiselle, put aside
these paltry considerations; let us show ourselves as great as our
sufferings, as strong as our affection for each other." And, as he said
this, he took her in his arms, and encircled her waist with both his
hands, saying, "My own love! my own dearest and best-beloved, follow
me."
She made a final effort, in which she concentrated--no longer all her
firmness of will, for that had long since been overcome, but all her
physical strength.
"No!" she replied, weakly, "no! no! I should die from shame."
"No! you shall return like a queen. No one knows of your having
left--except, indeed, D'Artagnan."
"He has betrayed me, then?"
"In what way?"
"He promised me faithfully--"
"I promised not to say anything to the king," said D'Artagnan, putting
in his head through the half-opened door, "and I kept my word, I was
speaking to M. de Saint-Aignan, and it was not my fault, if the king
overheard me; was it, sire?"
"It is quite true," said the king, "forgive him."
La Valliere smiled, and held out her small white hand to the musketeer.
"Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the king, "be good enough to see if you can
find a carriage for Mademoiselle de la Valliere."
"Sire," replied the captain, "the carriage is waiting at the gate."
"You are the most perfect model of thoughtfulness," exclaimed the king.
"You have taken a long time to find it out," muttered D'Artagnan,
notwithstanding he was flattered by the praise bestowed upon him.
La Valliere was overcome: after a little further hesitation, she allowed
herself to be led away, half fainting, by her royal lover. But, as she
was on the point of leaving the room, she tore herself from the king's
grasp, and returned to the stone crucifix, which she kissed, saying,
"Oh, Heaven! it was thou who drewest me hither! thou, who hast rejected
me; but thy grace is infinite. Whenever I shall again return, forget
that I have ever separated myself from thee, for, when I return, it will
be--never to leave thee again."
The king could not restrain his emotion, and D'Artagnan, even, was
overcome. Louis bore the young girl away, lifted her into the carriage,
and directed D'Artagnan to seat himself beside her, while he, mounting
his horse, spurred violently toward the Palais-Royal, where, immediately
on his arrival, he sent to request an audience of Madame.