THE MAID OF HONOUR.
The King returns to Saint-Germain as suddenly as he had departed; he
commands a hunt in the forest at noon. The château wears an air of
unusual gaiety. The King and Queen start together from the quadrangle,
but they do not address each other. Anne, who rides on in front,
attended by Monsieur, is positively dazzling in her sunny beauty. Her
delicate cheeks are flushed with excitement. A small velvet cap, with a
heron’s plume, rests on her head, and an emerald-coloured riding-dress,
bordered with gold, sets off her rounded figure. She is followed by her
ladies, many of whom wear masks to protect their complexions. The maids
of honour are in blue, with large hats overtopped by enormous feathers.
Near them rides the King. He is much too shy to address Mademoiselle de
Hautefort before such an assemblage; but his eyes constantly follow her,
and he is infinitely gratified by the reserve of her manner towards the
young gallants of the Court. Behind him rides the Grand Falconer,
followed by the huntsmen, the _piqueur_, the whippers-in, and the
falcons, hooded and chained to the wrists of their bearers. Last come
the dogs--the sad King’s special favourites. The brilliant cavalcade
flashes among the glades, which intersect the forest in every direction.
The gaily caparisoned steeds, and their still gayer riders, the
feathers, the lace, the embroidery, flutter in and out among the
openings of the wood, and are lost in the many paths, where every turn
is so like the other, yet each marked by some special beauty. Most of
the ladies are mounted on palfreys, but some prefer litters; others are
drawn up and down in cumbrous coaches, that threaten each moment to
overturn on the gnarled roots of beech and oak that break the sward. On
the riders dash between the giant tree-trunks, unhidden by the luxuriant
foliage that masses the woods in summer--for the season is spring--and
the trees are covered with but a slight shade of green leaves just
bursting from the grey boughs. Yonder they dart under a pine-tree that
darkens the ground, its spiky branches casting forth an aromatic
perfume. Then beneath a cherry-tree, white with snowy blossoms, on among
a maze of goss and yellow broom that streak the underwood with fire.
The birds sing in the bushes, the bees buzz among the blossoms, and the
horses’ hoofs crush the tender mosses and the early flowers that carpet
the ground. At the approach of the hunters hares and rabbits run lightly
away, and timid does, with their young at their side, scamper far into
the deepest recesses of the woods. Now the bugles sound, the dogs bay
loudly; they spread themselves from side to side and disappear among the
coppice, and the whole glittering company, gilded coaches, litters and
all follow them, and dash out of sight and are hidden among the trees.
It was arranged that the hunt should lead towards a noble mansion lying
on the confines of the forest, in the direction of Bondy, where the
host, apprized of the intended honour, had prepared an ample collation.
Etiquette demanded that the King and Queen should be served apart from
the rest. After their repast was finished and their attendants had
withdrawn, the Queen approached nearer to the King. He started up and
turned towards the door. Anne followed him. The long ride in the forest
had flushed her cheeks. She looked brilliant. “Your Majesty will not
refuse to speak to me, surely,” said she in the softest tones of her
naturally sweet voice, and she raised her glorious eyes, which would
have melted any other man but Louis, beseechingly.
The King shook his head sullenly.
“What have I done that your Majesty should scorn me?” said she,
stretching out her beautiful hand with the most winning gesture to
detain him.
Louis shrank from her touch, and turned his back upon her.
“Sire, will you not at least hear me, as you would hear the least of
your subjects?” and the Queen’s eyes filled with tears and her hand
dropped to her side.
“What have you to say to me?” asked Louis harshly, not looking at her.
“When I last saw your Majesty at Compiègne,” replied she with a
faltering voice, “your mother, the Queen-dowager”--at her name Louis
shuddered--“was mistress of the palace and of France. She sat at the
royal board; she presided at the Council of State; your Majesty obeyed
and loved her as a son. She is now a prisoner--disgraced, forsaken,
ill.” The Queen’s voice became so unsteady that she was obliged to stop,
and unbidden tears rolled down her cheeks. “What has this great Queen
done to deserve your Majesty’s displeasure?” she added after a pause.
“Madame, it is no affair of yours,” answered Louis gruffly. “I refuse to
give you my reasons. I act according to the advice of my council. Do not
detain me,” and he turned again to leave the room. Anne placed herself
in front of him; her head was thrown back, her figure raised to its full
height, the tears on her eyelids were dried; she was no longer timid,
but exasperated.
“If I have ventured to intercede for the Queen-mother,” said she with
dignity, “it is because she implored me to do so. She wept upon my
bosom. Her heart was all but broken. I comforted her as a daughter. I
promised her to use such feeble powers as I had, to soften your heart,
Sire. It is a sacred pledge I am discharging.”
“You are a couple of hypocrites!” exclaimed Louis with great irritation,
facing round upon her. “You hate each other. From my mother I have freed
myself; but you--” and he surveyed her savagely from head to foot--“you,
Madame Anne of Austria, you remain.”
“Yes, I remain,” returned Anne, “until, as I am told, you crave a
dispensation from the Pope and send me back to Madrid.” These last words
were spoken slowly and with marked emphasis. “I am a childless queen,”
and she shot a bitter glance at Louis, who now stood rooted to the spot
and listened to her with an expression of speechless amazement.
“Who told you, Madame, that I sought a dispensation from the Pope, and
to send you back to Madrid?” asked Louis sharply. Then, without waiting
for an answer, he put his hand to his forehead as if some sudden thought
had struck him, knit his brows, and was lost in thought.
“I have heard so, no matter how,” answered the Queen coolly, “and on
excellent authority. Sire,” she cried passionately, no longer able to
restrain her feelings, “you use me too ill--rather than suffer as I do I
will leave France for ever; I will not bear the mockery of being called
your wife--I would rather bury myself in a convent at Madrid.”
Louis was so completely abstracted, that although he had asked her a
question, he had forgotten to listen to her reply. Now he caught at her
last word.
“Madrid? Yes, Madame, I believe it. Your heart is there. I know it but
too well. Would you had never left Madrid! Ever since you came into
France you have desired my death that you might wed a comelier consort.”
Louis could scarcely articulate, so violently was he excited. Anne did
not stir, only her glowing eyes followed, as it were, each word he
uttered.
“You talk of the Queen-mother, do you know that she warned me long ago
that you were dishonouring me?”
“Oh, Sire, if you forget who I am,” exclaimed the Queen, “remember at
least that I am a woman!” and she burst into tears, and for a few
moments sobbed bitterly.
“Can you deny it, Madame,” continued the King, with rising fury, his
mouth twitching nervously, as was his wont when much agitated--“can you
deny it? Am I not become a jest among my own courtiers? You, the Queen
of France, openly encourage the addresses of many lovers. You are
wanting, Madame, even in the decency of the reserve becoming your high
station,” and Louis clenched his fist with rage.
“I deny what you say,” returned the Queen boldly; “I have discoursed
with no man to the dishonour of your Majesty.” She was trembling
violently, but she spoke firmly and with dignity. “If I am wanting in
concealment,” added she, “it is because I have nothing to conceal.”
“I do not believe you,” answered the King rudely.
“No, Sire, you do not, because you are my enemy. Your mind is poisoned
against me. You encourage the lies of Richelieu, you slander me to my
own attendants. Worse than all, you dare to couple my name with that of
the Duc d’Orléans, your own brother. It is a gross calumny.”
Her voice rose as she spoke; the power of truth and innocence was in her
look--it was impossible not to believe her. For an instant the King’s
suspicions seemed shaken. He followed eagerly every word she uttered;
but at the name of Monsieur a livid paleness overspread his face; for a
moment he looked as if he would have swooned. Then recovering himself
somewhat he came close up to her, and with a wild look he scanned her
curiously, as though to read some answer to his suspicions. “Who can
have told her? who can have told her?” he muttered half aloud--“a secret
of state too. It is not possible that--” The last words were spoken so
low that they were lost. Louis was evidently struggling with some
painful but overwhelming conviction. His head sunk on his breast. Again
he became lost in thought. Then, looking up, he saw that the Queen was
watching him. She was waiting for him to speak. This awakened him
suddenly to a consciousness of what was passing, and his anger burst
forth afresh.
“You say I am your enemy--yes, I am, and with reason. Are you not
devoted to the interests of Spain, now at war with France? Do you not
betray me in letters to your brother? Answer me.” It was now the Queen’s
turn to falter and turn pale. The King perceived it. “I have you there,
Madame Anne; I have you there;” and he laughed vindictively. “My life is
not safe beside you. Like my great father, I shall die by an assassin
whose hand will be directed by my wife!” A cold shiver passed over him.
“Richelieu has proofs. _Vrai Dieu_, Madame, he has proofs. It is
possible,” he added, with a sardonic smile, which made him look ghastly,
“that you may return to Madrid sooner than you imagine--you and the
Duchesse de Chevreuse, your accomplice.”
“Not sooner than I desire, Sire, after your unworthy treatment,”
exclaimed Anne, proudly, her anger overcoming her fears that her letters
might have been really deciphered. “I come of a race that cannot brook
insult; but I can bear disgrace.”
Louis, who felt that the Queen was getting the better of him, grew
furious--“I will have no more words, Madame,” shouted he; “we will deal
with facts. I shall appeal to my minister and to my council. For myself,
I am not fit to govern,” he added, in an altered voice, and with the
forlorn air of a man who cannot help himself.
“Speak not to me, Sire, of Richelieu and the council over which he
presides,” cried Anne, goaded beyond endurance. “Richelieu is a traitor,
a hypocrite, a libertine--not even his sovereign’s wife is sacred to
him!”
“Ah, Madame, it is natural that you and Richelieu should disagree,”
retorted the King, with an incredulous sneer. “He is a match for you and
for the Duchess your counsellor--the Duchess whose life disgraces my
Court.”
Anne had now thrown herself into a chair, her hands were crossed on her
bosom, her eyes bent steadily on the King, as if prepared for whatever
fresh extravagance he might utter. Even the enraged Louis felt the
influence of her fixed, stern gaze. He ceased speaking, grew suddenly
confused, paced up and down hurriedly, stopped, essayed again to address
her--then abruptly strode out of the room.
* * * * *
The Queen and her ladies are seated on a stone balcony that overlooks
the parterre and the park of Saint-Germain. Below, the King’s violins
are playing some music of his composition, set to words in praise of
friendship, full of covert allusions to Mademoiselle de Hautefort. The
Queen’s fair young face is clouded with care; she leans back listlessly
in her chair, and takes no heed of the music or of what is passing
around her. The Chevalier de Jars approaches her. There is something in
his air that alarms her; she signs to him to place himself beside her.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, conscious that every one is watching the
effect of the music and the words upon her, sits apart at the farther
end of the gallery, from which the balcony projects, almost concealed
from view. A door near her opens noiselessly, and the King puts in his
head. He peers round cautiously, sees that no one has perceived him, and
that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is alone, then he creeps in and seats
himself by her side. He looks saddened and perplexed.
“Why do you shun me?” he asks, abruptly.
“You have been absent, Sire.”
“Did you miss me?” His voice sounds so strange and hollow that
Mademoiselle de Hautefort looks up into his face. Something has
happened; what could it be? Some misfortune to the Queen is always her
first thought. Before she can reply, Louis sighs profoundly, so
profoundly that he almost groans, contemplating her, at the same time,
with looks of inexpressible sorrow. “Alas!” exclaims he at last, “I had
hoped so much from this interview when we parted at Fontainebleau; I
have lived upon the thought, and now--my dream is ended; all is over!”
The maid of honour grows alarmed: either he is gone mad, she thinks, or
something dreadful has happened.
“I cannot conceive what you mean, Sire?” she replies, not knowing what
to say.
“Are you, too, false?” he continues, “with those eyes so full of truth?
Yet it must be you, it can be no other. False like the rest; a devil
with an angel’s face!” The maid of honour is more and more amazed. “Yet
I trusted you; with my whole heart I trusted you,” and he turns to her
with a piteous expression, and wrings his hands. “I unfolded to you my
forlorn and desolate condition. It might have touched you. Tell me,” he
continues, in a tone of anguish, “tell me the truth; was it you who
betrayed me?”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort is terribly confused. She understands now what
the King means; a mortal terror seizes her; what shall she say to him?
She is too conscientious to deny point-blank that she has told his
secret, so she replies evasively, “that she is his Majesty’s faithful
servant.”
“But, speak,” insists the King, “give me a plain
[Illustration: CHÂTEAU OF NANTES.]
answer. How does the Queen know a state secret, that I confided to you
alone, that I even whispered in your ear?”
“Sire, I--I do not know,” falters the maid of honour.
“Swear to me, mademoiselle, that you have not betrayed me to the Queen;
swear, and I will believe you. _Pardieu!_ I will believe you even if it
is not true!” Louis’s eyes shine with hidden fire; his slight frame
quivers.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, trembling for her mistress, with difficulty
controls herself. “Your Majesty must judge me as you please,” she
replies, struggling to speak with unconcern. “I call God to witness I
have been faithful to my trust.”
“I would fain believe it,” replies the King, watching her in painful
suspense; he seems to wait for some further justification, but not
another syllable passes her lips. Still the King lingers; his looks are
riveted upon her.
At this moment the music ceases. The maid of honour starts up, for the
Queen has left the balcony. The King had vanished.
Anne of Austria, quitting those around her, advances alone to the spot
where Mademoiselle de Hautefort had been talking with the King. “I am
going at once to the Val de Grâce,” she whispers in great agitation.
“Indeed, Madame; so suddenly?”
“Yes, at once. I have just heard from the Chevalier de Jars that Chalais
is arrested at Nantes. He accuses me and the Duchesse de Chevreuse of
conspiring with him. Richelieu meditates some _coup de main_ against
me. I shall be safe at the Val de Grâce. You and the Duchess will
accompany me. Here is a letter I have written in pencil to my brother;
it is most important. I dare not carry it about me; take care to deliver
it yourself to Laporte.”
The Queen drew from her pocket a letter, placed it in the maid of
honour’s hand, and hastened back to rejoin the company. Mademoiselle was
about to follow her, when Louis suddenly rose up before her, and barred
her advance.
“Mademoiselle de Hautefort,” he said, “I have heard all. I was concealed
behind that curtain. Give me that letter, written by my wife, I command
you.”
“Never, Sire, never!” and Mademoiselle de Hautefort crushed the letter
in her hand.
“How--dare you refuse me? Give it to me instantly!” and he tried to tear
it from her grasp. She eluded him, retreated a few steps, and paused for
a moment to think, then, as if a sudden inspiration had struck her, she
opened the lace kerchief which covered her neck, thrust the letter into
her bosom, and exclaimed:--
“Here it is, Sire; come and take it!”
With outstretched arms she stood before him; her cheeks aglow with
blushes, her bosom wildly heaving. Wistfully he regarded her for a
moment, then thrust out his hand to seize the letter, plainly visible
beneath the gauzy covering. One glance from her flashing eye, and the
King, crimson to the temples, drew back; irresistibly impelled, he
advanced again and once more retreated, then with a look of baffled fury
shouted, “Now I _know_ you are a traitress!” and rushed from the
gallery.