AT VAL DE GRÂCE.
The ancient Benedictine abbey of the Val Profond, near Bièvre le Châlet,
three leagues from Paris, was founded by Robert, son of Hugh Capet. Soon
after her arrival in France, Anne of Austria bought the ground upon
which the then ruined abbey stood, moved the nuns to Paris, and placed
them in a convent called the Val de Grâce,[25] under the Mont Parnasse,
near the Luxembourg Gardens. To this convent of the Val de Grâce the
Queen often resorted to seek in prayer and meditation (for she was
eminently pious), consolation and repose. On these occasions she
occupied a suite of rooms specially set apart for her use.
It is a bright morning, and the sunshine streams through the painted
windows, and streaks the marble floor of the Queen’s oratory with
chequered colours. To the east, under a lofty window, stands an altar,
covered with a costly cloth, on which, in golden sconces, burn many
votive candles. Anne of Austria is seated in a recess, on a carved chair
of dark oak. She is dressed in black, her golden curls are gathered
under a sober coif; she looks pale, and ill at ease; her eyes, dulled by
want of sleep, are anxious and restless, but there is a resolution in
her bearing that shows she is prepared to meet whatever calamity awaits
her with the courage of her race. Mademoiselle de Hautefort sits on a
low stool at her feet. She is weeping bitterly.
“Ah! Madame,” she sobs, “this is Richelieu’s revenge. It is all his
doing. How could your Majesty listen to the advice of that wild Duchess,
and affront him so cruelly at Saint-Germain? Alas! he will persecute you
as long as he lives.”
“I cannot recall the past,” answers Anne sadly.
“Had you reposed confidence in me, Madame, this would never have
happened. Madame de Chevreuse has sacrificed you to her love of
intrigue.”
“My poor Chevreuse, she is no more to blame than I am. Where is the
Duchess, mademoiselle?”
While the Queen speaks a sound of wheels entering the courtyard from the
street of Saint-Jacques breaks the silence. A moment after Madame de
Chevreuse rushes into the oratory, so hidden in a black hood and a long
cloak that no one would have recognised her. She flings herself on her
knees before the Queen, and grasps her hands.
“Ah, my dear mistress, you are saved!” she cries, breathlessly. Anne
raises her and kisses her tenderly. “I am just come from the Bastille. I
went there disguised as a priest. I have seen Chalais. The Cardinal
interpreted what Chalais said--purposely, of course--into meaning an
attempt upon the life of the King.”
“Great God!” exclaims Anne, turning her glistening eyes to heaven, “what
wickedness!”
“The King has joined the Cardinal in a purpose to prosecute your Majesty
for treason. His Majesty is furious. He declares that he will repudiate
you, and send you back into Spain. He has commanded the Chancellor
Séguier and the Archbishop of Paris to repair here to the convent of the
Val de Grâce to search your private papers for proofs of your guilt and
of your treasonable intrigues with Spain. They are close at hand. I
feared lest they had already arrived before I could return and apprise
your Majesty.”
“But what of Chalais?” cries Anne. “Why did you visit him in the
Bastille?”
“To learn what had passed between him and the Cardinal. We must all tell
the same story. Chalais confesses to me that, in the confusion of his
arrest at Nantes, he did let fall some expressions connecting your
Majesty, Monsieur, and myself with the plot against Richelieu, and that
when questioned he avowed that he acted with your knowledge.”
“Ah, the coward!” cries Mademoiselle de Hautefort bitterly. “And you
love him.”
“No, mademoiselle, Chalais is no coward. He is a noble gentleman, whose
fortitude will yet save her Majesty. He has been betrayed by Louvigni,
the traitor, out of jealousy. Do not interrupt me, mademoiselle,”
continues the Duchess, seeing that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is again
about to break forth into reproaches against Chalais. “No sooner had
Chalais arrived at the Bastille than Richelieu visited him in his cell.
He offered him his life if he would consent to inculpate your Majesty in
the plot. Chalais refused, and declared that the plot of which you were
informed by Monsieur the Duc d’Orléans, was directed against himself;
and he told the Cardinal he might tear him in pieces with wild horses
before he would say one word to your Majesty’s prejudice.”
“Generous Chalais!” exclaims the Queen, clasping her hands. “Can he not
be saved?”
“No, Madame, my noble friend must die. He knows it, and places his life
at your feet.”
Anne sobs violently.
“Horrible! Oh, that I should cost those who love me so dear! Proceed,
Duchess.”
“The Cardinal had in the meantime, as soon as your Majesty left
Saint-Germain, sent to force your drawers and cabinets for papers.” Anne
rises to her feet, white with terror. “Never fear, Madame; I had thought
of that. Laporte had destroyed everything by my order. Only one letter
to your brother the King of Spain was found. It was written the day you
left, and confided by you, Mademoiselle de Hautefort, to Laporte,” and
the Duchess gives a spiteful glance at the maid of honour. “Before he
despatched it, Laporte was seized and searched.”
“There was nothing in that letter derogatory to me as Queen of France,”
says the Queen quickly. “I spoke of Richelieu’s insane passion for me,
and described the scene at Saint-Germain, and I told him I was about to
leave for the Val de Grâce; nothing more. The Cardinal will not show
that letter.”
“Yes, Madame, God be praised! it is so. But it was absolutely necessary
that I should tell Chalais that but one letter had been found, and that
perfectly innocent, before he was examined by the Cardinal. I have told
him. He knows he can save his Queen. He is content to die!” As the
Duchess speaks, the sound of wheels again interrupts them. “Hark! The
Chancellor and the Archbishop have arrived. Courage, your Majesty! All
now depends on your presence of mind. Nothing will be found in this
convent, and Laporte waits at the door without. He will suffer no one to
enter.”
Anne flings herself into the arms of the Duchess.
“You have saved me!” she cries, and covers her with kisses.
* * * * *
An hour has passed. Laporte knocks at the door, and enters. His looks
betray the alarm he tries to conceal.
“The Chancellor, Madame, has arrived, in company with the Archbishop of
Paris,” he says, addressing the Queen. “The Archbishop has commanded the
Abbess, the venerable Louise de Milli, and all the sisterhood, who went
out to meet him, to return each one within her cell, and not to exchange
a single word together during the time he remains in the convent, under
pain of excommunication.” The Queen and the Duchess exchange anxious
glances. Laporte speaks again with much hesitation, “I regret to say
that the Chancellor then proceeded to search all the cells. No papers
were found.” The Duchess clasps her hands with exultation. “How can I go
on?” Laporte groans, the tears coming into his eyes. “Forgive me,
Madame; I cannot help it.” The Queen makes an impatient gesture, and
Laporte continues: “The Chancellor craves your Majesty’s pardon, but
desires me to tell you that he bears a royal warrant, which he must
obey, to search your private apartment, and this oratory also.”
“Let him have every facility, my good Laporte,” answers the Queen
collectedly. “Mademoiselle de Hautefort, deliver up all my keys to
Laporte.”
“The Chancellor and the Archbishop desire to speak also to the
lady-in-waiting on your Majesty, the Duchesse de Chevreuse,” Laporte
adds.
“What new misfortune is this?” cries Anne of Austria, turning very pale.
“Go, dear Duchess; all is not yet over, I fear.”
Madame de Chevreuse leaves the oratory with Laporte. The Queen casts
herself on her knees before the sacred relics exposed on the altar. She
hides her face in her hands.
It is not long before the Duchess returns. Her triumphant air has
vanished. She tries to appear unconcerned, but cannot. Anne rises from
her knees, and looks at her in silence.
“Speak, Madame de Chevreuse; I can bear it,” she says meekly.
“Alas! my dear mistress, Richelieu’s vengeance is not yet complete. The
Chancellor has announced to me that a Council of State is about to
assemble in the refectory of the convent. You are summoned to appear, to
answer personally certain matters laid to your charge.”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort utters a loud scream. The Queen, her eyes
riveted on the Duchess, neither moves nor speaks for some moments.
“You have more to say. Speak, Duchess,” she says at last in a low voice.
“Nothing whatever has been found--no line, no paper. I took care of
that,” and the Duchess smiles faintly.
“You have not yet told me all. I must hear it. Conceal nothing,” again
insists the Queen.
“Alas! it is indeed as you say. The Chancellor”--and her voice falls
almost to a whisper--“has express orders under the King’s hand to search
your Majesty’s _person_.”
“Search an anointed Queen!” exclaims Anne of Austria. “Never!” and she
stretches out her arms wildly towards the altar. “Holy Virgin, help me!”
she cries.
At this moment the sound of many footsteps is heard without in the stone
passage, approaching the door. Anne of Austria has risen; she stands in
the centre of the oratory; an unwonted fire glows in her eyes, a look of
unmistakable command spreads itself over her whole person. Never had she
looked more royal than in this moment of extreme humiliation. The
Duchess rushes to the door and draws the ponderous bolts. “Now let them
come,” cries she, “if they dare!” They all listen in breathless silence.
The voice of Laporte, who has returned to his post outside the door, is
heard in low but angry altercation. Then he is heard to say, in a loud
voice--
“No one can be admitted to her Majesty, save only the King, without her
permission.”
“We command you in the name of the law. Stand aside!” is the reply.
Then another voice speaks:--
“We are the bearers of an order from the King and the Council of State
to see her Majesty.” It is the Chancellor’s voice, and his words are
distinctly audible within.
“I know of no order but from the Queen my mistress. Your Grace shall not
pass. If you do, it shall be across my body,” Laporte is heard to
reply.
“We enter our solemn protest against this breach of the law; but we
decline to force her Majesty’s pleasure.” It was still the Chancellor
who spoke. Then the sound of receding footsteps told that he was gone.
“Where will this end?” asks Anne in a hollow voice, sinking into a
chair.
The Duchess and Mademoiselle de Hautefort fling their arms round her.
“Bear up, Madame, the worst is over. Be only firm; they can prove
nothing,” whispers the Duchess. “There is not a tittle of evidence
against you.”
“Ah, but, my friend, you forget that the King is eager to repudiate me.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort knows it from his own lips.”
“He cannot, without proofs of your guilt,” the Duchess answers
resolutely. “There are none. And if he does, _qu’importe_? Why mar that
queenly brow with sorrow, and wrinkle those delicate cheeks with tears?
Be like me, Madame, a citizen of the world--Madrid, Paris, London--what
matters? The sun shines as brightly in other lands as here. Life and
love are everywhere. You are young, beautiful, courageous. To see you is
to love you. Swords will start from their scabbards to defend you. Your
exile in your brother’s Court will be a triumph. You will rule all
hearts; you will still be the sovereign of youth, of poetry, and of
song!”
As she speaks the Duchess’s countenance beams with enthusiasm. Anne of
Austria shakes her head sorrowfully, and is silent.
“You are happy, Duchess, in such volatile spirits,” says Mademoiselle de
Hautefort contemptuously, her eyes all the while fixed on her royal
mistress; “but I cannot look on the disgrace of the Queen of France as
though it were the finale to a page’s roundelay.”
The sound of many heavy coaches thundering into the inner court of the
convent puts a stop to further conversation.
“The council is assembling!” exclaims the Duchess.
At these words the Queen rises mechanically; her large eyes, dilated and
widely open, are fixed on vacancy, as though the vision of some unspoken
horror, some awful disaster, had risen before her. She knows it is the
crisis of her life. From that chamber she may pass to banishment,
prison, or death. For a moment her mind wanders. She looks round wildly.
“Spare me! spare me!” she murmurs, and she wrings her hands. “Alas! I am
too young to die!” Then collecting her scattered senses, she moves
forward with measured steps. “I am ready,” she says, in a hollow voice.
“Unbar the door.”