my soul, and his traps for my feet, but the preacher bade me
hold fast to him, and surely he was drawing me Heavenwards. Yet
through weakness of body I denied him, and the Devil kissed me,
and I was a damned soul, and the net was so tight about me I
could not move, and being damned could not pray.
“Yet I brooded still on Heaven and the Preacher, and conceived
a great wrath against him who had wrung that denial from me, so
having the seal of the Devil on me I slew my father and saw him
die in the night. And being put on my trial cast spells till
they thought me innocent. Yet I was presently weary of this,
and did admit my master and to-morrow shall die and be returned
to that Great Wickedness of which I am a part, yet once was a
saved soul, grace to Master John Bunyan.
“May He whose name I dare not write save others from what
befell Grace Endicott.”
Many who read this paper did say she was a mad woman, and many did say
she was a witch, and Gilbert Farry the Devil himself, while others
swore she was crazed with love for John Bunyan and was innocent and the
old man died naturally (for, indeed, the doctors afterwards fell out
about his having been poisoned), and yet others held she had lost her
wits through the terror she had been in through denying her faith–and
who shall make truth out of all this tangle?
THE CUP OF CHICORY WATER
“MADAME SE MEURT! MADAME EST MORTE!”
_Vanitas vanitatum, dixit Ecclesiastes,_
_Vanitas vanitatum, et omnia vanitas._
“_O nuit desastreuse! O nuit effroyable, ou retentit tout a
coup comme un eclat de tonnerre cette etonnante nouvelle:
Madame se meurt! Madame est morte!_”
Madame found herself at the pinnacle of her desires; she had returned
to France with news of the treaty of Dover signed, with the friendship
of her brother for Louis de Bourbon, with the prospect of yet another
conquest to offer to the glorious nation that had adopted her; her
triumphant charms had sealed the league between England and France; she
had seen Arlington put his name to the paper that rendered void the
Triple Alliance. Her influence, they said, and the languishing eyes of
Louise de la Querowaille had done it. It was the _coup de theatre_,
though a secret one, of a brilliant and unscrupulous policy; it was
praised by M. de Louvois and by the King; it was the most dishonourable
bargain a sovereign of England had ever set his hand to; it was false,
lying, treacherous; it involved the ruin of two nations to satisfy the
greed of one man and the ambition of another.
Also it was the seeds from which many years after sprang the
hydra-headed league that laid in the slime of defeat the glories of
invincible France.
But Madame never knew of that.
All who spoke to her praised her–her, the daughter of an English King
and the sister of an English King–for this treaty which betrayed the
English people and their allies; she had been always courted for her
beauty, her rank; now she found herself courted for her political
influence and her skill in the affairs of men–most exquisite of
compliments for a clever woman proud of her cleverness.
The greatest nation in the world was beholden to her; there were many
to tell her so. Afterwards the Dutch called her a wanton woman, and the
English people cursed her as they cursed her brother. But Madame never
heard them.
There were two Queens at the Court of France, but Madame was above
either; she was the most brilliant, the most admired princess in
France, which is to say in the world.
Madame was Henriette-Anne d’Angleterre, Duchesse d’Orleans,
sister of Charles Stewart and the sister-in-law of Louis de
Bourbon, granddaughter of Henri Quartre and his Medicis Queen,
great-granddaughter of Marie Stewart, on both sides of a rich
illustrious blood, yet born in the midst of civil war in the
beleaguered town of Exeter and brought up a penniless exile.
Now, at five and twenty, at the apogee of her fame with these things
forgotten; her brother was restored to her father’s throne, and had
avenged himself, God knows, on the English people, Madame lending her
delicate aid.
Nine months ago Henriette-Marie de France, Madame’s mother, had died,
and Madame had listened to her funeral sermon, preached by the Bishop
of Condom. As his glowing eloquence fell on her ears Madame had wept,
her gay, light heart touched for the first and perhaps the last time.
She resolved to alter her frivolous, pleasure-loving useless life; she
appointed the Bishop her confessor, and made, it may be, some little
progress on another path to that which she had followed so far.
His grace of Condom called her a virtuous princess, and, in common with
all who knew her, loved her for her gaiety, her charm, her sweetness;
his one-time reproof had melted into flatteries now: there could be no
censure for her who had detached England from The Triple Alliance.
Her return from England had been celebrated by a succession of balls,
fêtes, masques; she had re-conquered France with her dazzling English
beauty, her graceful easy manners, and the brilliant success of her
mission. Flushed and roseate from her victory she descended like a
goddess into her throne in the most glorious court in Europe; she
was the idol of the people too, “the most adorable princess who ever
lived,” one of her ladies called her. There seemed no word to express
her complex charm.
In the midst of her gorgeous triumph Madame was a little grieved, a
little stung by the obvious coldness of Monsieur; his jealousy had been
the background of her life for the eight years since she had married
him. Defying him, she had come more than once very near to giving him
cause for open outraged clamour, but her wit, her courage had saved
her; it had always ended in Madame laughing at Monsieur.
She laughed at Monsieur now; it had become a habit, though, knowing
him to be something justified and not being shallow herself, there
was a little ache to be hidden beneath her sparkling demeanour, an
ache strengthened perhaps by a memory of the Bishop of Condom’s words
and a vague desire to follow them. But there was all her life, she
thought; now there was no time for anything but gaiety, applause, the
sweet incense of adulation. In the court that toasted Mme d’Armagnac,
Louise de la Vallière, Madame Valentinois, Madame de Soissons, she was
reckoned the most beautiful woman; she believed that the King loved
her; in her heart she believed that he, Adonis and Mars among men,
loved her, the unattainable. If she had been free–or even perhaps the
wife of any other man–she might have been the Queen of France.
She had coquetted with many; the splendid de Guiche, the romantic de
Vardes, Marsillac and Monsieur le Grand Ecuyer, but–the King—
The queen and Monsieur paid her the infinite compliment of being
furiously jealous; the d’Armagnacs, the Mancinis, the la Vallières and
the lesser beauties spread abroad to dazzle the eyes of majesty were
openly overshadowed; Racine wrote for her “Berenice,” and all who saw
it performed knew who the heroine stood for–and who was Titus.
The past was stormy but glorious, the future vague but golden; she
had the praises of Louis and the endearments of Charles in her ears;
she had come from England where she had queened it for a period of
meteor-like splendour to France, where she was permanently enthroned.
“This is a glorious year for me,” said Madame. “I think that I am
happier than I have ever been.”
It was the twenty-ninth of June, the year 1670, eight days after
Madame’s return to France. She and Monsieur had gone to St. Cloud;
Madame loved the château; despite the commands of her physician, M.
Vyelen, she bathed every morning in the river that flowed down from
Paris past the park and wandered at night in the moonlight that was so
chilly after the heat of the day. Madame, whose short life had been
torn with several fierce illnesses, was careless of her health. This
day, the twenty-ninth of June, she had passed quietly. Madame de la
Fayette had arrived at St. Cloud, and Madame had been pleased to see
her; they had walked in the garden gaily and Madame had talked of her
stay in England, of the King her brother; speaking of these things
pleased her. She laughed, and was very cheerful. An Englishman was
painting Monsieur and Mademoiselle, her eldest daughter; she went to
see these pictures, and spoke again of England to Madame de la Fayette
and Madame d’Epernon.
Dinner was served in the studio; afterwards Madame lay along the couch
and slept, her head almost on the shoulder of Madame de la Fayette.
Monsieur sat for his portrait; his extremely handsome, cold face was
turned towards his wife; he appeared not to notice her, but once he
remarked that her countenance had changed curiously in her sleep.
Madame de la Fayette, looking down, noticed that this was so. Madame
did not look beautiful or even agreeable now; the lady reflected that
it must be that her loveliness lay in her spirit, but reflected again
that she was wrong, for she had often seen Madame asleep and never seen
her look less than beautiful before.
Monsieur talked indifferently of many things. Presently the sitting was
concluded, and Madame awoke. Monsieur remarked that she looked ill;
she took up the glass at her girdle and surveyed herself. She wore a
tight-laced gown of pearl-coloured satin, embroidered with wreaths of
pink roses; it well suited her blue-eyed loveliness. She dropped the
mirror.
“I look well enough,” she smiled.
Monsieur left the room; he had expressed his intention of going to
Paris.
Madame descended with Mme Gourdon into the saloon that looked upon the
terraces, the fountains, the parkland. It was a beautiful afternoon,
lacking but a few moments of five o’clock; the salon was filled with
sunshine that showed the dark walls, the polished floor, the furniture
heavy, gilded, and Madame walked up and down talking to M. Boisfeane,
the treasurer of Monsieur. She complained, laughing, of a pain in her
side, and held her hand to it as she walked; the long window was open
and a breeze blowing in ruffled the long auburn curls back from her
face. Presently Monsieur entered; he wore a pink velvet riding suit
and was booted and spurred; he looked at his wife as if he would have
spoken to her, but changed his mind and crossed to the window.
“I asked for a cup of chicory water,” said Madame, ignoring him. “Where
is Mme de Mecklenbourg?”
As she spoke that lady entered with the Comtesse de Gamaches.
Madame smiled at them; Monsieur turned in the window recess and looked
at her; his hands held his gloves behind his back; the sunlight made
stars of his spurs and twinkled on his sword-handle. Madame crossed the
long room, taking no heed of him; her satin gown rippled with light.
She held out her hand delicately.
“I have such a pain in my side,” she said. Chicory water had eased her
before. She laughed.
Mme de Mecklenbourg handed the cup to Mme de Gourdon, who gave it the
Princess.
Monsieur began putting on his gloves, looking, however, at his wife.
Monsieur de Boisfeane was choosing a flower from the vase on the
side-table, with an idea of fastening it in his cravat.
The heavy pendulum clock struck five. Madame drank.
When she had finished she moved a step away from the three ladies, the
cup in one hand, the other clasped to her heart.
“My side,” she said in a tone of agony; the colour rushed into her
face. “Ah!–the pain–I can no more.”
They stood staring at her, Monsieur de Boisfeane with a pink rose held
in his hand.
“Ah, my God!” cried Madame; she was now livid, and the cup fell from
her grasp. “Hold me up–I cannot stand.”
The Comtesse de Gamaches took her under the arms, for she was falling
backwards, and Mme de la Fayette took her hands.
As her husband did not move, Mons. Boisfeane dared not offer his aid.
The four ladies supported her to the door; she walked with difficulty;
her head, with its fair hair outspread, sank against Mme de Gamaches’
shoulder; her pearl comb, that had been her mother’s, fell out of her
locks and rattled on the smooth floor.
Monsieur, moving for the first time since her outcry, picked it up and
ordered Mons. Boisfeane to call a doctor.
Madame, moaning, almost fainting, was half lifted, half dragged to her
chamber.
This was a handsome room full of the summer sunshine and overlooking
the rose terrace. Madame sank across the chair before her
dressing-table; Mme de la Fayette held her up while the other ladies
unlaced her. In an instant they had her undressed and in a night-gown;
they lifted her into the great red-curtained bed.
Her constant complaints and the tears in her blue eyes startled and
astonished them; they knew that she was usually patient under pain.
“You are in great anguish?” asked Mme de la Fayette.
“It is inconceivable,” she answered. “What have I done?”
She threw herself from side to side in her agony, clutching at the
pillows and her thin night-rail. Mme de Gamaches drew the silk curtains
over the bright sunlight and the terraces of St. Cloud. Her first
physician came, stared down at her as she lay tossing.
He said she had caught a chill from her bathing, that it was nothing;
he could offer no remedy.
She sat up in bed, shuddering with pain.
“I am wiser than you think,” she cried. “I am dying–send me a
confessor.”
The doctor repeated that it was nothing dangerous, and left the chamber
to prepare a powder.
Madame fell on her side again; her sufferings were horrible. She opened
her eyes from a swoon of anguish to see her husband holding back the
bed curtains and looking down at her.
She spoke, panting from the pillow.
“Ah, Monsieur!–you have ceased to love me–a long while now–but I–I have
never deceived you.”
He turned away without a word.
She lay now on her back exhausted; the curtains were drawn so that she
was enclosed in her bed. Her sick eyes traced the pattern on the canopy
above her; she heard her ladies whispering.
She thought of de Guiche smuggled into her apartments under the guise
of a fortune-teller, of his letters–three, four a day–when she was last
sick; she thought of Marsillac, of de Vardes, of M. de Lorraine and of
the King—
She thought of the King’s brother, her husband, of how she had angered,
flouted, wounded him, of how she had laughed at him.
All at once she sat up and dragged the curtains apart.
“Look to that water I drank,” she gasped. “I am poisoned!” As she
spoke she saw that Monsieur was still in her chamber, and she seemed
confused. “They mistook one bottle for another,” she said, and fell
down again in the bed.
A little tremor of horror ran through the ladies. Madame de la Fayette
looked at Monsieur; he appeared neither startled nor terrified.
“Give some of the chicory water to a dog,” he said, “and watch if it be
poison or no.”
But Mme de Gamaches said that the cup she had given to Madame had
contained the last there was in the bottle.
It was now half-past five; the doctor returned and gave Madame a glass
of viper powders mixed with milk; as she dragged herself up to take it
she noticed that the sun was still shining brightly through a chink in
the curtains, and it shot across her agony; it was a strange thing that
the sun glimmered still over the terraces, the rose-beds, the terraces
of St. Cloud, and the broad river running from Paris.
The loathsome mixture did her no good; she was smitten with a deadly
sickness, and lay quite still, shivering. M. Vyelen felt her hands, icy
cold, her feet as cold.
“I am poisoned,” she said; “I am dying.”
The room was crowded with people; many of them were weeping. The noise
of it came heavily to her ears; her eyes were closed.
She wondered why they should weep; nobody was there whom she had
imagined fond of her; neither De Guiche, Marsillac, M. de Lorraine–her
brother, De Vardes or–the King.
And these? Would any of these care? She trusted none but the last.
How far to Versailles? Why did they not send for him?
The curtain was drawn again; this time Mme Desbordes. She declared that
she had made the chicory water herself and had drunk of it. This to
comfort Madame; it was not–as to the last–true.
Madame persisted that she was poisoned. She sat up in bed; the tears
lay in her eyes.
“Give me an antidote,” she said through locked teeth. She was not going
to die, she told herself; it was too horrible. People did not die like
this in the midst of glory. She clenched her hand against her side and
demanded an antidote.
Sainte-Foy, the valet de chambre of Monsieur, brought her a draught
composed of Jesuit’s bark and pulverised mummy. Monsieur had sent it,
he said; the doctor could recommend no better antidote. She drank it,
shivering; the eyes were distracted.
Her ladies whispered and sobbed together; there were now so many men
and women in the room that she felt the air close and heavy. She
implored Sainte-Foy to open the window; the doctor forbade it.
With that she fell back, tossing in the grip of pain, crying out that
she was poisoned.
M. Vyelen brought her a glass of oil; she forced it down, shuddering
with nausea.
Then after the administration of several horrible nameless drugs she
lay in a half-stupor.
The pain had ceased to be localised; it shuddered through her limbs
like her very blood and seemed one with the thick air about her.
Her thoughts raced at a fever pace; she saw the towers of Exeter, the
first thing she could remember; she saw the mean room in Paris where
her girlhood had been spent and the waves tossing in the channel as she
stood on the deck of the ship by her mother’s side: a man in cut velvet
was there–George Villiers, the first man to profess himself mad for
love of her.
Then masques, festivals, adorations, ballets danced with the King,
snatched interviews with De Guiche, passionate letters from De Vardes,
hunting parties with M. de Lorraine, little scenes with Monsieur, with
the Queen Mother,–her last great triumph only a few days ago–and now?
Not the end? Oh, God! Oh, Christ! Not the end!
“She is better,” whispered Madame de la Fayette, seeing her lie still.
She opened her poor tortured blue eyes.
“The pain is always the same,” she said, “only I have no strength to
complain.”
Then after a moment–
“Is there no remedy for this agony?”
They wept and whispered and talked. Monsieur was in the ante-chamber.
The doctors seemed bewildered, frightened; one felt her pulse; it was
beating furiously. She complained of heat though she had tossed the
bedclothes off and torn open her night-gown; but there were so many
people in the room, and they pressed so close to the bed that she
obtained little air.
The curé of St. Cloud had arrived; they argued in the ante-chamber
whether he should be admitted or not; to let Madame see a confessor was
to admit that she was dying.
She had now been ill for three hours. The room was full of the yellow
light of lamps and candles; some of it penetrated through her bed
curtains. A spasm of horror shook her. What if she never saw the sun
again! She resolved to live at least till dawn–so her thoughts, panting
with her pain.
Monsieur came to her bedside; she opened her eyes and looked at him as
he stood holding back her curtains. He had a spray of jasmine in the
buttonhole of his pink coat; she noted that. He had not worn it when
she had fainted in the saloon; since then he had found time to fix it
there.
“Will you see the confessor, Madame?” he asked. How little he had
changed since she had first known him; she looked up into his cold
face, and their eyes met.
“No,” she murmured, and her heavy lids fell. “I am not dying. I shall
be better soon.”
The light hurt her eyes; she was glad when he dropped the curtain and
turned away.
How she had lied to Monsieur and laughed at him–especially laughed at
him–never with malice; now she was prostrate, helpless before him.
She called Madame de la Fayette.
“Cannot you do anything for me?” she whispered desperately.
She was told that they had sent to Paris for a doctor, to Versailles
for the King’s physician.
“Versailles,” she repeated; her eyes lit.
Madame de la Fayette put her arm about her and held her up in bed; she
seemed for the moment a little eased of her agony.
M. Vyelen roused her as she lay in this half swoon to bleed her arm.
All her poor vanity was roused; there was a great ballet on
Thursday–she might be there yet–and her arms were her especial beauty.
“My foot!” she pleaded; “Monsieur, bleed my foot.”
He insisted; her husband came and added his authority; she must be
bled in the arm if M. Vyelen commanded it.
She protested still and moaned; Monsieur helped to support her while
the doctor bared her arm.
She looked so pale, so worn with pain, so patient, she lifted her eyes
with such a look of dumb helplessness that Monsieur was troubled and
turned his face away.
The doctor opened a vein; she shuddered to see the blood run into
the basin; she began to make complaint when all his bandaging would
not stop the bleeding and her pillow began to be stained with the
quick-spreading red.
Monsieur Vyelen had lost his nerve and cut too deeply. Madame de la
Fayette had to hold Madame’s arm up. Monsieur moved away; the sight of
blood made him sick.
Madame, lamentably feeble, strove with a clutching fear of death and
demanded the confessor. They endeavoured to dispersuade her, vowing she
was better. She shook her head with such a look of anguish that they
cleared the room and brought the priest.
Madame de la Fayette remained, holding her up.
She was too weak to do more than repeat the formula of the church. When
the priest had gone she lay back and tried hard to think of her real
sins, but hopeless confusion engulfed her.
God was so shadowy. No one had ever told her what He wanted of her;
she had thought very little about Him, very little about death. She
wondered if it would ever be remembered to her that she was very
young. What did it mean to be good? She had never wilfully injured any
one, she had never felt wicked; but she hoped God would remember she
was very young. For a while this thought gave her some ease; then it
flashed across her mind that the Queen was no older, and the Queen was
virtuous, obviously virtuous.
La Vallière also; she knew Louise de la Vallière was a good woman and
one whom she had shamefully treated.
Surely her sins were not difficult to remember now. She fell out of
Madame de la Fayette’s arms and lay silent on the pillow. The room had
filled again; the King’s physician, M. Vallot, had arrived.
He was an old man and pompous; he came to the bedside and Madame lifted
her head.
“Thank you for your attention, Monsieur,” she said. “But I am poisoned.
Unless you can treat me for that—” She sank down again.
Monsieur Vallot smiled.
There was no danger, he said; it was merely the pain that frightened
her. He retired to consult with the other doctors.
M. le Prince came to see her; she seemed pleased and tried to look at
him, but he wore a black and gold brocade, and the candle light on it
dazzled her. She half closed her eyes.
“I am dying,” she murmured.
M. le Prince was greatly moved; he tried to tell her that she was
better.
She shook her head and asked what time it was.
“Nine o’clock, Madame,” he answered.
She asked if they might have the window open, and complained of the
heat; but no one dared for fear of the doctor.
Then Madame caught hold of Monsieur le Prince’s arm so as to draw him
down to her, and breathed the question she had so longed to ask.
“The King–does he know? Is he coming?”
The news was at Versailles, he told her; but no one thought her
dying–she was not dying.
Monsieur came to her bedside. M. Vallot, he said, had come to him four
times and assured him on his life that there was no danger; the other
doctors had agreed with him, and he had returned to Versailles.
Madame looked at the pink figure of her husband and the jasmine
drooping in his buttonhole.
“I know my state better than the doctors,” she said; “and I think there
is no remedy.”
Her husband moved away with M. le Prince. Every one in the room seemed
talking together; their voices echoed in her head horribly. She tried
to compose her thoughts, but could not. If she might only have some
respite from her pain! Why did not the King come?
Mme d’Epernon brought her a draught of senna that M. Vallot had ordered.
She drank it, and Mme Gamaches, approaching, said that the King had
sent for news.
“Tell his Majesty I am dying,” said Madame. Not content with that, she
asked them to send M. de Crequi to Versailles to say that she was in
great peril.
Meanwhile no remedy had given her any ease; she asked if they could not
bring her something to assuage her anguish.
M. Vyelen answered that she must wait; in two hours the senna would
relieve her.