THE ORIEL WINDOW.
“You have come at last,” said Louis eagerly. “Why would you not look at
me? I have suffered tortures; I abhor the Queen’s ladies, a set of
painted Jezebels, specially the Duchesse de Chevreuse, a dangerous
intriguer, her Majesty’s evil genius. I saw them all mocking me. Why did
you not look at me? you knew I came for you,” repeated he, querulously.
“Surely, Sire, I could not be so presumptuous as to imagine that a visit
to her Majesty from her husband concerned me.”
“Her husband! would I had never seen her, or her friend the Duchesse.
They are both--well, I will not say what, certainly spies, spies of
Spain. My principles forbid me to associate with such women. You look
displeased, mademoiselle--what have I done?”--for Mademoiselle de
Hautefort showed by her expression the disapproval she felt at his
abuse of the Queen. “It is your purity, your sweetness, that alone make
the Court bearable. But you are not looking at me--cruel, selfish girl!
would you too forsake me?”
The maid of honour feeling that she must say something, and assume an
interest she did not feel, looked up into the King’s face and smiled. “I
am here, Sire, for your service. I am neither cruel nor selfish, but I
am grieved at the terms in which you speak of my gracious mistress. Let
me pray your Majesty, most humbly, not to wound me by such language.”
Her look, her manner, softened the irritable Louis. He took her hand
stealthily and kissed it. He gazed at her pensively for some moments
without speaking.
“How beautiful you are, and wise as you are beautiful!” exclaimed he at
length. “I have much to say to you, but not about my Spanish wife. Let
us not mention her.” His eyes were still riveted on the maid of honour;
his lips parted as if to speak, then he checked himself, but still
retained her hand, which he pressed.
“You hunted yesterday, Sire,” said she, confused at the King’s silence
and steadfast gaze; “what number of stags did you kill? I was not
present at the _curée_.” She gently withdrew her hand from the King’s
grasp.
“I did not hunt yesterday; I was ill,” replied Louis. “I am ill, very
ill.”
This allusion to his health instantly changed the current of his
thoughts, for Louis was a complete valetudinarian. He became suddenly
moody, and sank heavily into a seat placed behind a curtain, the thick
folds of which concealed both him and the maid of honour.
“I am harassed, sick to death of everything. I should die but for you. I
can open my heart to you.” And then suddenly becoming conscious that
Mademoiselle de Hautefort still stood before him, he drew a chair close
to his side, on which he desired her to seat herself.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, knowing well that the King would now go on
talking to her for a long time, assumed an attitude of pleased
attention. Louis looked pale and haggard. His sallow cheeks were shrunk,
his large eyes hollow. As he spoke a hectic flush went and came upon his
face.
“Will you not let me take your hand, mademoiselle?” said he, timidly. “I
feel I could talk much better if I did, and I have much to say to you.”
She reluctantly placed her hand in his. The King sighed deeply.
“What is the matter, Sire?”
“Ah, that is the question! I long to tell you. I sigh because I am weary
of my life. My mother, who still calls herself Regent, and pretends to
govern the kingdom, quarrels perpetually with Richelieu. The council is
distracted by her violence and ill-temper; affairs of state are
neglected. She reproaches Richelieu publicly for his ingratitude, as she
calls it, because he will not support her authority rather than the good
of the kingdom. The Duc d’Epernon supports her. He is as imperious as
she is. Her ambition embitters my life, as it embittered that of my
great father.”
“Oh, Sire, remember that the Queen-dowager of France is your mother.
Besides, Richelieu owes everything to her favour. Had it not been for
her he would have remained an obscure bishop at Luçon all his life. She
placed him at Court.”
“Yes, and he shall stay there. _Par Dieu!_ he shall stay there. If any
one goes it shall be my mother. I feel I myself have no capacity for
governing; I shrink from the tremendous responsibility; but I am better
able to undertake it than the Queen-mother. Her love of power is so
excessive she would sacrifice me and every one else to keep it--she and
the Duc d’Epernon,” he added, bitterly. “Richelieu is an able minister.
He is ambitious, I know, but I am safe in his hands. He can carry out no
measures of reform, he cannot maintain the dignity of the Crown, if he
is for ever interfered with by a fractious woman,--vain, capricious,
incompetent.”
“Oh, Sire!” and Mademoiselle de Hautefort held up her hands to stop him.
“It is true, madame. Did not the Queen-mother and her creatures, the
Concini and the Duc d’Epernon, all but plunge France into civil war
during her regency? She was nigh being deposed, and I with her. What a
life I led until De Luynes rescued me! He presumed upon my favour, _le
fripon_, and brought boat-loads of Gascon cousins to Court from Guienne.
I never knew a man have so many cousins! They came in shoals, and never
one of them with a silken cloak to his back--a beggarly lot!”
“But, Sire,” said Mademoiselle de Hautefort, sitting upright in her
chair, and trying to fix the King’s wandering mind, “why do you need
either her Majesty the Queen-mother or the Cardinal de Richelieu?
Depend on no one. Govern for yourself, Sire.”
“Impossible, impossible. I am too weak. I have no capacity. I have none
of my great father’s genius.” And the King lifted his feathered hat
reverently from his head each time he named his father. “Richelieu rules
for me. He has intellect. He will maintain the honour of France. The
nation is safe in his hands. As for me, I am tyrannised over by my
mother, laughed at by my Spanish wife, and betrayed by my own brother. I
am not fit to reign. Every one despises me--except you.” And the King
turned with an appealing look towards Mademoiselle de Hautefort. “You, I
hope, at least, understand me. You do me justice.”
There was a melting expression in the King’s eyes which she had never
seen before. It alarmed her. She felt that her only excuse for the
treacherous part she was acting was in the perfect innocence of their
relations. A visible tremor passed over her. She blushed violently, a
look of pain came into her face, and her eyes fell before his gaze.
“You do not speak? Have I offended you?” cried Louis, much excited.
“What have I said? Oh, mademoiselle, do not lose your sympathy for me,
else I shall die! I know I am unworthy of your notice; but--see how I
trust you. The hours I spend in your society give me the only happiness
I enjoy. Pity, pity the King of France, who craves your help, who
implores your sympathy!”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, speaking in her usual quiet manner, entreated
him to be calm.
“Am I forgiven?” said he in a faltering voice, looking the picture of
despair. “Will you still trust me?”
“Yes, yes, Sire. I am ashamed to answer such a question. Your Majesty
has given me no offence.”
Louis reseated himself.
“It is to prepare you for an unexpected event that I wish to talk to
you. It is possible that I may shortly leave Compiègne suddenly and
secretly. I must tear myself away from you for a while.”
“Leave the Court, Sire! What do you mean?”
“The quarrels between my mother and Richelieu are more than I can
endure. They must end. One must go--I will not say which. You can guess.
I am assured by Richelieu, who has information from all parts of France,
that her Majesty is hated by the people. She is suspected of a knowledge
of my great father’s death; she has abused her position. No one feels
any interest in her fate.”
“But, surely, your Majesty feels no pleasure in knowing that it is so,
even if it be true, which I much doubt.”
“Well, her Majesty has deserved little favour of me,” replied he with
indifference. “Richelieu tells me that her exile would be a popular
act----”
“Her exile, Sire! You surely do not contemplate the exile of your own
mother?”
“Possibly not--possibly not; but a sovereign must be advised by his
ministers. It is indispensable to the prosperity of the State.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort was silent, but something of the contempt she
felt might have been seen in her expressive eyes.
“I do not feel disposed,” continued he, “to face the anger of the
Queen-mother when she hears my determination. She would use violent
language to me that might make me forget I am her son. Richelieu must
break it to her. He can do it while I am away. Agitation injures my
health, it deranges my digestion. I have enough to bear from my wife,
from whom it is not so easy to escape----”
Again he stopped abruptly, as if he were about to say more than he
intended.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, ever on the lookout for all that concerned
her mistress the Queen, glanced at him with sullen curiosity. Her eyes
read his thoughts.
“Your Majesty is concealing something from me?” she said.
“Well, yes,”--and he hesitated--“it is a subject too delicate to
mention.”
“Have you, then, withdrawn your confidence from me, Sire?” asked she,
affecting the deepest concern.
“No, no--never. I tell you everything--yet, I blush to allude to such a
subject.”
“What subject, Sire? Does it concern her Majesty?”
“By heaven it does!” cried the King, with unwonted excitement, a look of
rage on his face. “It is said--” and he stopped, and looked round
suspiciously, and became crimson. “Not here--not here,” he muttered,
rising. “I cannot speak of it here. It is too public. Come with me into
this closet.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, foreboding some misfortune to the Queen,
followed him, trembling in every limb, into a small retiring-closet
opening from the gallery where they had been seated. He drew her close
to the window, glanced cautiously around, and placed his hand on her
arm.
“It is said,”--he spoke in a low voice--“it is said--and appearances
confirm it--that”--and he stooped, and whispered some words in
Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s ear, who started back with horror. “If it be
so,” he added coolly, “I shall crave a dispensation from the Pope, and
send the Queen back to Madrid.”
“For shame, Sire! you are deceived,” cried Mademoiselle de Hautefort, an
expression of mingled disgust, anger, and terror on her face. She could
hardly bring herself to act out the part imposed upon her for the
Queen’s sake. She longed to overwhelm the unmanly Louis with her
indignation; but she controlled her feelings. “On my honour, Sire,” said
she firmly, “they do but converse as friends. For the truth of this I
wager my life--my salvation.”
“Nothing of the kind,” insisted Louis doggedly. “It is your exalted
virtue that blinds you to their wickedness. My mother, who hates
me--even my mother pities me; she believes in the Queen’s guilt.”
“Sire,” broke in the maid of honor impetuously, her black eyes full of
indignation, “I have already told you I will not hear my royal mistress
slandered; this is a foul slander. To me she is as sacred as your
Majesty, who are an anointed king.” Louis passed his hand over his brow,
and mused in silence. “I beseech you, Sire, listen to me,” continued
she, seeing his irresolution. “I speak the truth; before God I speak the
truth!” Louis looked fixedly at her. Her vehemence impressed, if it did
not convince him. “Your Majesty needs not the counsel of the
Queen-mother in affairs of state; do not trust her, or any one else, in
matters touching the honour of your consort.” And she raised her eyes,
and looked boldly at him. “Promise me, Sire, to dismiss this foul tale
from your mind.”
“All your words are precious, mademoiselle,” replied Louis evasively,
and he caught her hand and kissed it with fervour.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort dared not press him further. She withdrew her
hand. They were both silent, and stood opposite to each other. As Louis
gazed into her eyes, still sparkling with indignation, his anger melted
away.
“When I am gone, mademoiselle,” said he tenderly, “do not forget me. You
are my only friend. I will watch over you, though absent. Here is a
piece of gold, pure and unalloyed as are my feelings toward you,” and he
disengaged from his neck a medallion delicately chased. “See, I have
broken it. One half I will keep; the other shall rest in your bosom”;
and he pressed it to his lips, and placed it in Mademoiselle de
Hautefort’s hands. “As long as you hold that piece of gold without the
other half, know that as the token is divided between us, so is my
heart--the better half with you.”
Her conscience smote her as she received this pledge. Louis had such
perfect faith in her integrity, she almost repented that her duty to the
Queen forced her to deceive him.
“Your Majesty overwhelms me,” said she, making a deep reverence.
“The Court is full of intrigues,” continued Louis, “I have no wish to
control my minister; but remember this--obey no order, defy all
commands, that are delivered to you without that token.” The maid of
honour bowed her head. A tear stole down her cheek; the King’s
simplicity touched her in spite of herself. “Adieu, mademoiselle,” said
he, “my best, my only friend. I humbly crave your pardon for aught I may
have said or done to wound your delicacy. We will meet at Saint-Germain:
then, perhaps, you will fear me less. We will meet at Saint-Germain.”
He hesitated, and approached dangerously near to the handsome maid of
honour, whose confusion made her all the more attractive. As he
approached, she retreated.
Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and a page entered the closet, and
announced--
“The Queen-dowager, who demands instant admittance to her son, the
King.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort disappeared in an instant through a door
concealed in the arras. The King, pale as death, put his hand to his
heart, sank into a chair, and awaited the arrival of his mother.