LOUIS XIII.
It is related that the night after the assassination of Henri Quatre by
Ravaillac, and while his body lay in the Louvre, his little son, Louis
XIII., screaming with terror, cried out that he saw the same men who had
murdered his father coming to kill him. Louis was not to be pacified
until he was carried to his mother’s bed, where he passed the rest of
the night.
To this infantine terror, this early association with death and murder,
may be traced the strange character of Louis; weak in body and mind,
timid, suspicious, melancholy, superstitious, an undutiful son, a bad
husband, and an unworthy king. The fame of his great father, and the
enthusiasm his memory inspired, instead of filling him with emulation,
crushed and depressed him. He became a complete “_Roi fainéant_.” His
reign was the reign of favourites, and nothing was heard of the monarch
but in connection with them, save that, with a superstition worthy of
the Middle Ages, he formerly placed France “under the protection of the
Virgin.”
His early favourite, Albret the Gascon, created Duc de Luynes and
Constable of France, was his tyrant. As long as he lived Louis both
hated and feared him. He hated his mother, he hated Richelieu, he hated
his wife, Anne of Austria. Louis, surnamed “the Just,” had a great
capacity for hatred.
Poor Anne of Austria, to whom he was married at fifteen, she being the
same age, what a lot was hers!
Her personal charms actually revolted the half-educated, awkward boy,
whom all the world thought she would govern despotically. He could not
help acknowledging her exceeding loveliness; but she was his superior,
and he knew it. He shrank back, terrified, at her vivacity and her
talents. Her innocent love of amusement jarred against his morbid
nature. Melancholy himself, he disliked to see others happy, and from
the day of their marriage he lived as much apart from her as state
etiquette permitted.
Maria de’ Medici, ambitious and unprincipled as ever, widened the breach
between them. She still sat supreme in the council, and regulated public
affairs. Richelieu, her favourite and minister during the Regency, in
continual dread of a possible reconciliation between Louis and his wife,
and in love with the young Queen himself, was rapidly rising to that
dictatorship which he exercised over France and the King until he died.
Both he and the Queen-mother roused Louis’s jealousy against his wife,
and dropped dark hints of danger to his throne, perhaps to his life.
They succeeded only too well; the King and Queen become more and more
estranged.
Anne of Austria uttered no complaint. She showed no anger, but her pride
was deeply wounded, and amongst her ladies and her friends her joyous
raillery did not spare the King. Reports of her flirtations also, as
well as of her _bon mots_ and her mimicry, heightened by the malice of
those whose interest it was to keep them asunder, reached Louis, and
alienated him more and more. Anne, too young to be fully aware of the
growing danger of her position, vain of her success, and without either
judicious friends or competent advisers, took no steps to reconcile
herself to her husband. Coldness and estrangement rapidly grew into
downright dislike and animosity; suspicions were exaggerated into
certainty, until at last she came to be treated as a conspirator and a
criminal.
The age was an age of intrigue, treachery, and rebellion. The growing
power of the nobles narrowed the authority of the throne. The incapacity
of the King strengthened the pretensions of the princes. Spain,
perpetually at war with France, sought its dismemberment by most
disloyal conspiracies. Every disaffected prince or rebellious noble
found a home at the Court of Philip, brother of Anne of Austria.
Thus Louis knew nothing of royalty but its cares and dangers. As a boy,
browbeaten and overborne by his mother, when arrived at an age when his
own sense and industry might have remedied defects of education, he took
it for granted that his ignorance was incapacity, his timidity
constitutional deficiency.
A prime minister was absolutely indispensable to such a monarch, and
Louis at least showed some discernment in selecting for that important
post the Bishop of Luçon (Cardinal Richelieu), the _protégé_ of his
mother.
Estranged from his wife, pure in morals, and correct in conduct, Louis,
still a mere youth, yearned for female sympathy. A confidante was as
necessary as a minister--one as immaculate as himself, into whose ear
he could, without fear of scandal, murmur the griefs and anxieties of
his life. Such a woman he found in Mademoiselle de Hautefort, maid of
honour to the Queen. Her modesty and her silence first attracted him.
Her manners were reserved, her speech soft and gentle. She was naturally
of a serious turn of mind, and had been carefully educated. She took
great apparent interest in all the King said to her. Her conversation
became so agreeable to him, that he dared by degrees to confide to her
his loneliness, his misery, and even his bodily infirmities, which were
neither few nor slight. This intimacy, to a solitary young King who
longed for affection, yet delicately shrunk from the slightest semblance
of intrigue, was alluring in the highest degree.
Long, however, ere Louis had favoured her with his preference she had
given her whole heart to her mistress, Anne of Austria. Every word the
King uttered was immediately repeated to the Queen, with such comments
as caused the liveliest entertainment to that lovely princess, who
treated the _liaison_ as an admirable joke, and entreated her maid of
honour to humour the King to the very utmost, so as to afford her the
greatest possible amount of amusement.
The Court is at Compiègne. Since the days of Clotaire it has been a
favourite hunting-lodge of the Kings of France. One vast façade
stretches along verdant banks sloping to the river Oise, across which an
ancient bridge (on which Jeanne d’Arc, fighting against the English, was
taken prisoner) leads into the sunny little town. On the farther side of
the château a magnificent terrace, bordered by canals, links it to the
adjoining forest. So close to this terrace still press the ancient trees
and woodland alleys, backed by rising hills crowned with lofty elms, and
broken by deep hollows where feathery beeches wave, that even to this
day the whole scene faithfully represents an ancient chase. So immense
is the château that the two Queens, Marie de’ Medici and Anne of
Austria, could each hold distinct Courts within its walls. Marie, in the
suite called the “Apartments of the Queens-dowager of France,” then hung
with ancient tapestry and painted in fresco, looking over the grassy
lawns beside the river and the town; Anne, in the stately rooms towards
the forest and the woodland heights.
Within a vaulted room, the walls hung with Cordova leather stamped in
patterns of gorgeous colours, Anne of Austria is seated at her toilette.
Before her is a mirror, framed in lace and ribbons, placed on a silver
table. She wears a long white _peignoir_ thrown over a robe of azure
satin. Her luxuriant hair is unbound and falls over her shoulders; Doña
Estafania, her Spanish dresser, who has never left her, assisted by
Madame Bertant, combs and perfumes it, drawing out many curls and
ringlets from the waving mass, which, at a little distance, the morning
sunshine turns into a shower of gold. Around her stand her maids of
honour, Mademoiselles de Guerchy, Saint-Mégrin, and de Hautefort. The
young Queen is that charming anomaly, a Spanish _blonde_. She has large
blue eyes that can languish or sparkle, entreat or command, pencilled
eyebrows, and a mouth full-lipped and rosy. She has the prominent nose
of her family; her complexion, of the most dazzling fairness, is
heightened by rouge. She is not tall, but her royal presence, even in
youth, lends height to her figure. When she smiles her face expresses
nothing but innocence and candour; but she knows how to frown, and to
make others frown also.
There is a stir among the attendants, and the King enters. He is
assiduous in saluting her Majesty at her lever when Mademoiselle de
Hautefort is present. Louis XIII. has inherited neither the rough though
martial air of his father, nor the beauty of his Italian mother. His
face is long, thin, and sallow; his hair dark and scanty. He is far from
tall, and very slight, and an indescribable air of melancholy pervades
his whole person. As Louis approaches her, Anne is placing a diamond
pendant in her ear; her hands are exquisitely white and deliciously
shaped, and she loves to display them. She receives the King, who
timidly advances, with sarcastic smiles and insolent coldness. While he
is actually addressing her, she turns round to her lady in waiting, the
Duchesse de Chevreuse, who stands behind her chair, holding a
hand-mirror set in gold, whispers in her ear and laughs, then points
with her dainty finger, bright with costly rings, to the King, who
stands before her. Louis blushes, waits some time for an answer, which
she does not vouchsafe to give; then, greatly embarrassed, retreats into
a corner near the door, and seats himself.
The Duchesse de Chevreuse, the friend and confidante of Anne of Austria,
widow of the King’s favourite the Duc de Luynes, now a second time
[Illustration: LOUIS XIII., KING OF FRANCE AND OF NAVARRE
FROM AN OLD PRINT]
Duchess, as wife of Claude Lorraine, Duc de Chevreuse, an adventuress
and an _intrigante_, is a gipsy-faced, bewitching woman, dark-skinned,
velvet-eyed, and enticing; her cheeks dimpling with smiles, her black
eyes dancing with mischief.
The King sits lost in thought, with an anxious and almost tearful
expression, gazing fixedly at Mademoiselle de Hautefort who stands
behind the Queen’s chair among the maids of honour. Suddenly he becomes
aware that all eyes are turned upon him. He rises quickly, and makes a
sign to Mademoiselle de Hautefort to approach him; but the eyes of the
maid of honour are fixed upon the ground. With a nervous glance towards
the door, he reseats himself on the edge of his chair. The Queen turns
towards him, then to Mademoiselle de Hautefort, and laughs, whilst the
maid of honour busies herself with some lace. A moment after she
advances towards the Queen, carrying the ruff in her hand which is to
encircle her Majesty’s neck.
Anne leans back, adjusts the ruff, and whispers to her--“Look,
mademoiselle, look at your despairing lover. He longs to go away, but he
cannot tear himself from you. I positively admire his courage. Go to
him, _ma belle_--he is devouring you with his eyes. Have you no mercy on
the anointed King of France?”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort colours, and again turns her eyes to the
ground.
“Duchesse,” continues Anne in a low voice, addressing the Duchesse de
Chevreuse, “tell mademoiselle what you would do were you adored by a
great king. Would you refuse to look at him when he stands before
you--red, white, smiling, almost weeping, a spectacle of what a fool
even a sovereign may make of himself?” And the Queen laughs again
softly, and, for an instant, mimicks the grotesque expression of the
King’s face.
“Madame,” says Mademoiselle de Hautefort, looking up and speaking
gravely, “the opinion of Madame la Duchesse would not influence me. We
take different views of life. Your Majesty knows that the King is not my
lover, and that I only converse with him out of the duty I owe your
Majesty. I beseech you, Madame,” adds she, in a plaintive voice, “do not
laugh at me. My task is difficult enough. I have to amuse a Sovereign
who cannot be amused--to feign an interest I do not feel. Her grace the
Duchesse de Chevreuse would, I doubt not, know how to turn the
confidence with which his Majesty honours me to much better account”;
and Mademoiselle de Hautefort glances angrily at the Duchess, who smiles
scornfully, and makes her a profound curtsey.
“You say true, mademoiselle,” replies she; “I should certainly pay more
respect to his Majesty’s exalted position, and perhaps I should feel
more sympathy for the passion I had inspired. However, you are but a
mere girl, new to court life. You will learn in good time,
mademoiselle--you will learn.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, about to make a bitter reply, is interrupted
by the Queen.
“Come, _petite sotte_,” says Anne, still speaking under her breath,
“don’t lose your temper. We all worship you as the modern Diana. Venus
is not at all in the line of our royal spouse. Look, he can bear it no
longer; he has left the room. There he stands in the anteroom, casting
one last longing look after you; I see it in the glass. Go,
mademoiselle, I dismiss you--go and console his Majesty with your
Platonic friendship.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort left the room, and was instantly joined by
Louis, who drew her into the embrasure of an oriel window.