LOVE AND TREASON.
Anne of Austria has left Compiègne and the royal prisoner, and is now
at Saint-Germain. The château stands upon the crest of a hill, backed by
a glorious forest that darkens the heights encircling Paris.
It is spring; the air is warm and genial, the sky mildly blue; light
clouds temper the bright sunshine that plays upon the southern façade of
the palace, and glistens among the elms which form magnificent avenues
in the surrounding park.
The King has not yet returned, and the Queen and her ladies, relieved of
his dreary presence, revel in unusual freedom. Concerts, suppers,
dances, repasts in the forest, and moonlight walks on the terrace, are
their favourite diversions. Anne of Austria has not positively forgotten
the lonely captive at Compiègne, but is too much engrossed with her own
affairs to remember more than her promise to assist her. That atmosphere
of flattery a woman loves so well and accepts as an offering exacted by
her beauty breathes around her. Monsieur Gaston, Duc d’Orléans, the
King’s only brother, is always by her side. Monsieur is gay, polished,
gallant; tall and slight like his brother, and pale-faced, but not, as
with Louis, with the pallor of disease. He has much of his mother’s
versatile nature without her violent temper. Like her he is fickle,
weak, and treacherous, incapable of any deep or stable feeling.
Monsieur talks to the Queen of Madrid, and sympathises with her
attachment to her brother, to whom Anne writes almost daily long letters
in cipher (always committed to the care of the Duchesse de Chevreuse),
notwithstanding the war between France and Spain. The chivalrous Duc de
Montmorenci, more formal and reserved than Monsieur, but equally
devoted; the Duc de Bellegarde, no longer the ideal of manly beauty dear
to the heart of poor Gabrielle d’Estrées, but grey-headed and
middle-aged, though still an ardent servant of the fair, with the
chivalric manners and soldier-like freedom of the former reign; gallant,
rough, generous Bassompierre, who was to pay so dearly by twelve years’
imprisonment in the Bastille his opposition to the Cardinal; and
Maréchal d’Ornano, the _beau sabreur_ of that day, were also in
attendance, each one the object of the King’s morbid jealousy.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort rarely leaves the Queen. She rejoices almost
more than her mistress in the King’s absence. The Duchesse de Chevreuse,
bewitching and spiteful, closely attended by the Comtes Chalais and
Louvigni, whom she plays one against the other; the Duchesse de
Montbazon, her step-mother, whose imperious eyes demand worship from all
who approach her, ever in the company of De Rancé,[24]--by-and-by to
found the order of La Trappe,--are some of the Ladies who form the
Queen’s Court.
One moonlit night the Queen and her ladies had lingered late on the
stately terrace, built by Henry IV., which borders the forest and
extends for two miles along the edge of the heights on which the
château stands. The Queen and her brother-in-law, Monsieur Duc
d’Orléans, have seated themselves somewhat apart from the rest on the
stone balustrade that fronts the steep descent into the plains around
Paris. Vineyards line the hillside, which falls rapidly towards the
Seine flowing far beneath, its swelling banks rich with groves,
orchards, villas, and gardens. Beyond, the plain lay calm and still,
wrapped in dark shadows, save where the moonbeams fall in patches and
glints of silvery light. Of the great city which spreads itself beyond,
not a vestige is to be seen. All human lights are extinguished, but the
moon rides high in the heavens in fields of azure brightness, and the
stars shine over the topmost heights, where, on the very verge of the
horizon, and facing the terrace, the towers of the Cathedral of
Saint-Denis break the dusky sky-line.
A range of hills links this far-off distance with the sombre masses of
the adjoining forest. Great masses of trees surge up black in front,
swaying hither and thither in the night breeze; the rustling of their
leaves is the only sound that breaks the silence. For a time the Queen
sits motionless.
“What a lovely night,” she says at last, as she casts her eyes out over
the broad expanse of earth and sky. “Oh, that the world could be ever as
calm and peaceful!”
A sad look comes into her eyes,--she heaves a deep sigh, throws back her
head and gazes upwards. The softened rays of the moon shine upon her
face, light up the masses of her golden hair, and play among the folds
of a long white robe which encircles her to the feet. She sits framed,
as it were, in a circle of supernatural lustre. Monsieur is beside her,
rapt in admiration. The beautiful vision before him intoxicates his
senses. The landmarks of social restriction, of tyrannous etiquette,
have vanished, gone, with the sun and the daylight. He forgets that she
is a great queen, the wife of his brother--his Sovereign; he forgets
that their attendants, though invisible, are at hand, that a glittering
palace lies hid among the woods, with its attendant multitudes; he
forgets all save that she is there before him, a dazzling presence,
sprung, as it seems, out of the darkness of the night. He gazes at her
with speechless rapture. Words which had often before trembled on his
lips must now be uttered. He is about to speak, when the Queen,
unconscious of what is passing within him, awakes from her reverie and
points to the forest.
“See, Gaston, how the moon plays upon those branches. I could almost
believe that some fantastic shapes are gliding amongst the trees. Let us
go back; the forest is horribly dark, it frightens me.” And she
shudders.
“I can see nothing but you, my sister,” answers Monsieur, softly. “You
are the very goddess of the night.” And his eyes rest on her with an
impassioned gaze.
Anne of Austria still looks fixedly into the thicket, as if fascinated
by the mystery of the great woods. Again she shudders and wraps the
light mantle she wore closer around her.
“It is late, my brother,” she says, rising. “If I stay longer I shall
have evil dreams. Let us go.”
“Oh, my sister! oh, Anne!” cries the Duke, “let us stay here for ever.”
And he caught one of the folds of her white robe, kissed it, and gently
endeavoured to draw her, again, toward the balustrade.
“By no means,” replied the Queen, startled, for the first time meeting
his eyes. “Ah, my brother,” adds she, becoming suddenly much confused,
“are you sure you do not frighten me more than the strange shapes among
the trees?”
“Trust me,” cries Monsieur ardently, retaining her robe almost by force.
“Tell me you will trust me--now, always. Ah, my sister, my heart bleeds
for you. Never, never will you find one so devoted to you as I----”
There was a certain eloquence in his words, a truth in his protestings,
that seemed to touch her. Anne flushes from head to foot.
“Monsieur--Gaston--let me go.” And she disengages herself with
difficulty. Monsieur now rose. “Where is the Duchesse de Chevreuse?”
asks Anne, not knowing what to say.
“No fear for her: she is well attended,” replies Monsieur in a voice
full of vexation. “Every one is in good luck but me. I never saw a man
so madly in love as poor Chalais, and the Duchess returns it.”
The Queen is now walking onwards at as rapid a pace as the uncertain
light permitted, along the terrace. Monsieur follows her.
“Yes--in love,”--and Anne laughs her silvery laugh; “but that is not the
way I would give my heart if I gave it at all, which I don’t think I am
tempted to do.” And she looked back archly at Monsieur, whose
countenance fell. “Chalais is one among so many,” continues the Queen,
trying to resume her usual manner. “The Duchess is very benevolent.”
“Alas, my poor Henry!” answers Monsieur, “with him it is an overwhelming
passion. Louvigni and the others admire and court the Duchess; but they
are not like Chalais--he worships her. The Duchess is a coquette who
uses him for her own purposes. She is now inciting him to head a
dangerous conspiracy against the Cardinal. Chalais has opened the matter
to me; but they go far--dangerously far. I cannot pledge myself to them
as yet.”
“Oh, Gaston!” exclaims the Queen, stopping, and laying her hand eagerly
on his arm; “if you love me as you say you do, join in any conspiracy
against the Cardinal.”
The Queen speaks with vehemence. A sudden fire shot into her eyes, as
she turns towards Monsieur. Her delicate hand still rests for an instant
upon him, and is then withdrawn.
“Fair sister,” replies the Duke, “You cannot pretend to misunderstand
me. For your service I would risk anything--how much more a tussle with
an arrogant minister, who has outraged me--as much as he has you.
Perhaps, Anne, I would risk too much for your sake.” And the enamoured
look again comes into his eyes. But the Queen draws back, and turns her
head away. “Deign to command me, sister--Queen,” he adds, “only to
command me, and I will obey.”
Anne is now walking onwards. For a few moments she does not reply.
“If you would serve me--let Richelieu be banished,” says she at last
imperiously. “I care not whither. Nothing is too bad for him. He has
dared to insult me. You, Gaston, are safe, even if you fail. My brother
will receive you at Madrid; I will take care of that.”
“I am overcome by your gracious consideration for my welfare,” cries
Monsieur, catching at her words. “But, my sister,” continues he gravely,
“do you know what this plot means? Assassination is spoken of. At this
very moment I wager my life the Duchess is employing all her seductions
to draw Chalais into a promise of stabbing the Cardinal.”
“Stabbing the Cardinal? Impossible! Chalais would not commit a crime.
You make me tremble. The Duchess told me nothing of this. She must have
lost her head.”
“I know that Chalais is fiercely jealous. He is jealous of every one who
approaches the Duchess, and we all know that the Cardinal is not
insensible to her charms----”
“Odious hypocrite!” breaks in the Queen.
“As long as Richelieu lives,” continues Monsieur, “my mother will not be
set at liberty. He dreads her influence. He knows she has a powerful
party.”
“It is infamous!” exclaims Anne of Austria.
“The Cardinal persuades the King that he alone can govern France, and
that our mother desires to depose him and appoint a regency, which I am
to share with her; that you, my sister, conspire against him with Spain.
My brother, weak, irresolute, insensible to you, believes all that is
told him. I, my mother’s only friend, dare not assist her. You, his
wife, the loveliest princess in Europe--nay, in the whole world,”--and
his kindling eyes fix themselves upon her--“he repulses. You might as
well be married to an anchorite. Thank God, his Majesty’s health is
feeble, his life very uncertain. If he dies I shall be King of France,
and then----” He pauses, as if hesitating to finish the sentence. “Ah,
my sister!” he exclaims, stopping and trying to detain her. “Had I been
blessed with such a consort I would have passed my life at her feet.
Would that even now I might do so! The dark canopy of these ancient
trees--the silence, the solitude, make all possible. Speak to me, Anne;
tell me--oh, tell me that I may hope. Do not turn away from me----”
The Queen had stopped. She stands listening to him with her face turned
towards the ground.
The moon is fast sinking behind the distant tree-tops, and the deepest
shadows of the night darken their path which had now left the terrace,
and lay beneath the trees. The wind sighs and moans in the adjoining
forest, and an owl hoots from an ivy-covered tree. For some minutes the
Queen moves not. Her whole figure is in shadow. Was she listening to the
voices of the night? or was she deeply musing on what she had heard? Who
can tell?
Some sudden resolve seemed, however, to form itself in her mind. She
roused herself, and motions to Monsieur with her hand to go onwards.
“Alas, my brother,” she says with a deep sigh, “do not press me, I
beseech you. You know not what you say. Such words are treason.” And she
hurries onwards into the gloom. “Head the conspiracy against the
Cardinal,” she continues, moving quickly forward as if afraid to hear
more; “restrain the violence of Chalais, who loves you well and will
obey you. I will temper the indiscretion of the Duchess. She is an
excellent lieutenant, inspired in her readiness of resource and
ingenuity in intrigue; but--she is a bad general. We must be careful,
Gaston, or we shall all find ourselves prisoners in the Bastille.”
“No, by Saint Paul! not so, my sister,” and Monsieur laughs gaily, for
his facile nature dwelt upon nothing long, and his thoughts had now been
diverted into other channels. “No; but we will have Richelieu there!
Bassompierre and D’Ornano are with us; they swear that they will shut
him up in an iron cage--as Louis XI. did Cardinal Balue--for life, and
feed him on bread and water. _Corps de Dieu!_ I should like to see it.”
“But I will have no blood shed,” rejoins the Queen; “remember that.”
“My sister, your word is law. When I have learnt more from Chalais, I
will inform you of every detail.”
They had now reached the château. The windows shone with light. Torches
fixed in the ground burnt round the great quadrangle, and a guard of
musketeers, assembled near the entrance, presented arms as the Queen
passed.
A page appeared, and handed a despatch to Mademoiselle de Mérigny, who
had now joined the Queen. She presented it to her Majesty. Anne broke
the seals. As she read she coloured, then laughed. “Gaston,” whispered
she, turning to Monsieur, “this is the most extraordinary coincidence.
We have been talking of the Cardinal, and here is a letter from him in
which he craves a private audience. You shall learn by-and-by what it
means.”
“_Par Dieu!_” exclaimed Monsieur, full of wonder.
“Tell no one of this but Chalais,” again whispered the Queen. Then she
lightly laid her small hand within that of Monsieur; they mounted the
grand staircase together, and passed through the long suite of the royal
apartments. All were blazing with light; on either side of the great
gallery stood the Court, ranged in two lines, waiting her Majesty’s
pleasure. As she passed, led by Monsieur, she bowed slightly, and, with
a wave of the hand, dismissed the assembly. At the door leading to her
private apartment Monsieur pressed her hand, raised it to his lips, and,
glancing at her significantly, bowed and retired.