THE GROTTO OF THETIS--THE GOOD AND EVIL ANGELS
As the Marchioness and Sainte-Croix entered the covered room in the
Bosquet de la Salle de Bal, it presented a most brilliant spectacle.
The whole of the company had adjourned there from the theatre in the
Allée du Roi, and many were now dancing on the almost polished turf
of the circular parterre. Others were seated on the steps, also of
turf, which surrounded the _salle_ in the manner of an amphitheatre,
except for about an eighth of its circumference, where several
fountains of sparkling water shot up nearly to the roof, falling back
again to tumble with an agreeable murmur over the steps, which here
were of bright pebbles and shells, until they reached the basin
beneath. The roof was of deep blue, strained tightly upon poles, which
were high enough to overtop the tallest trees, and an artificial moon
had been constructed in it with consummate skill; whilst stars of
brilliant pieces of metal hung by short invisible threads from the
ceiling, and as they caught the light on their different facets with
the slightest vibration had the appearance of twinkling.
Jean Blacquart was there, as well as the abbe, who, having found him a
listener to his poem, had never once left him since the victim was
caught in the _foyer_ of the theatre. The Gascon, of course, did not
dance, being only admitted to the _bosquet_ by virtue of his assumed
office of guard, under the auspices of Maître Picard; but he talked
so largely, and indulged in such remarkable rhodomontades as to whom
he knew and what he had done, that the abbe set him down for some
distinguished officer, and was more than ever determined to keep by
his side.
Louis was not dancing. He was seated on a platform slightly elevated
from the ground, at the edge of the fountain; and was dividing his
attentions between Madame de Montespan, who was still at his side, on
his right hand, and another lady on his left, who had now joined the
royal party. She was very lovely, although a close observer might have
perceived that she was slightly marked with the small-pox. Her skin
was delicately fair, and her beautiful flaxen hair clustered in heavy
ringlets, less showery than generally worn according to the fashion of
the time, over her forehead and neck. Her eyes were blue, swimming in
softened light, and her countenance was overspread by a regard so
tender yet so full of modesty, that she gained at the same moment the
love and esteem of all who gazed upon her; and yet, when the
occasional lighting up of her features as the King addressed her, died
away, they became pale and sad. Her smile was followed by a pensive
expression, which accorded but ill with the festivity around her.
‘Ah, times are changing!’ said the abbe, as he gazed at her; ‘and that
fair lady’s reign is nearly over. I question whether La Montespan,
with all her witcheries, will love him half so well though.’
‘Who is it?’ asked Jean.
The abbe appeared slightly astonished at the ignorance of his new
acquaintance, as he replied--
‘Who could it be but Louise de la Vallière? Ah! hers was a curious
destiny. Picked out by Louis to cover his attention to his
sister-in-law Henriette, she has supplanted her. But it does not seem
likely that the liaison will last much longer. Montespan has his
heart.’
As he spoke, Mademoiselle de la Vallière rose from her seat and
crossed over to speak to Madame de Maintenon, who was sitting on the
parapet of the basin that received the water from the fountain. She
limped as she walked along, and Jean saw that she was lame.
‘She seldom dances,’ continued the garrulous abbe, ‘on account of her
defect; and so she does not care always to be present at the balls. I
can conceive the reason of her not being at the play.’
‘How was that?’ inquired the Gascon.
‘Because the King’s sentiments appear to be somewhat changed since our
Molière was commanded to write the _Princesse d’Elide_. He was then
madly in love with La Vallière, although at the time she resisted all
his entreaties. What else could these lines mean?’
And Jean flinched as the abbe again commenced a piece of declamation,
quoting from the piece in question in a monotonous tone of dulness
suited to the subject--
The homage which is offer’d to a countenance refined
Is an honest indication of the beauty of the mind;
And scarcely possible it is, if love be not innate,
That a young prince should come to be or generous or great:
And this above all other regal qualities I love,
This sign alone the tenderness of royal hearts can prove!
To one like you, a bright and good career we may presage,
When once the soul is capable of loving, at your age.
Yes, this immortal passion, the most noble one of all,
An hundred goodly virtues training after it can call;
The most illustrious actions are engender’d by its fires,
And all the greatest heroes have experienced its desires.’[13]
Jean bowed respectfully at the termination of each line, as if he
fully concurred in the sentiments it conveyed, but was very glad when
it was over.
‘Ha! the music has ceased,’ said the abbe; ‘and there will be a
masque, and some fireworks on the Bassin de Neptune, and the _étang_
beyond. That will be also a trial for La Vallière. The last fetes at
night were in her honour, and they are going to use the old machines
newly decorated. It will be a _renaissance_ of the Ile Enchantée.’
The company retired to the banks of turf which surrounded the Salle de
Bal, Louis, and a few immediately attached to him only remained below,
amongst whom were of course La Montespan and La Vallière. When the
floor was cleared, a cavalcade of heralds, pages, and squires, all
richly clad in armour, and dresses embroidered with thread of silver
and of gold, marched into the _bosquet_, the music of Lulli’s band of
twenty-four violins being exchanged for that of martial instruments.
When they had taken their places, a large car, made to imitate the
chariot of the Sun, was slowly moved into the ballroom by concealed
means, conveying the Sun, surrounded by the four Ages of gold, silver,
iron, and brass; the Seasons, the Hours, and other mythological
characters. On arriving opposite the point where Louis was sitting,
the colossal machine halted, and Spring addressed a complimentary
oration to the King, involving also some flattering sentences for
Madame de Montespan and Mademoiselle de la Vallière--but more
especially for the former. When this had finished, the young person
who had played the character of Spring descended from the car, and
having offered some rare bouquets to Louis and his favourites, took
her place amongst the company. She was the only performer in the
masque who did this, being the lovely Françoise de Sévigné--the
daughter of Madame de Sévigné--now about eighteen years of age. She
had been requested, on account of her extreme beauty and propriety of
expression to play the part,--since, in the fetes at Versailles, it
was not usual for the _dames de la cour_ to figure.
This portion of the masque having finished, the various mythological
personages descended as well, but it was only to bring in a number of
long tables, which they placed before the company on the lowest
turf-benches of the amphitheatre. These they spread with cloth of
gold, and thus gave the signal for another large piece of mechanism to
enter, representing a mountain, on which were seated Pan and Diana.
When it stopped, these deities opened various parts of it, and aided
by the others, brought out an exquisite collation, which they placed
upon the tables, the music playing all the time. At the first sight of
the banquet, the abbe bustled off to find a place at the tables; and
Jean Blacquart, not wishing to lose the caste which he imagined he had
acquired, and knowing that he could not join the feasters, turned upon
his heel into the gardens, to see if anywhere he could discover
Maître Picard.
Few who had seen Marie de Brinvilliers, as she mingled in the dances
which had been taking place before the appearance of the pageant,
would have conceived that any other feelings but those of mirth and
excitement amidst the glittering throng by which she was surrounded
were paramount in her bosom. There was the same kind expression--so
terrible in its quietude had her heart at that time been laid
open--the same sweet features, almost girlish in their contour (for
although she was now thirty years of age, she could well have passed
for eighteen), which all admired so much. And when she smiled, the
witchery that played around her rosy mouth, as her parted lips
displayed that most beautiful set of teeth, whose dazzling whiteness
had been the theme of more than one court epigram, captivated by its
spell all who came within its magnetic influence. Of all that lovely
throng of women who graced the court of Louis Quatorze--the bevy of
fair dames, so many of whom swelled the conquests of that heartless,
selfish, roué monarch--the Marchioness of Brinvilliers was the most
fascinating. And this fair creature, who now, in the light of her
peerless beauty, of which she seemed unconscious, moved gracefully in
the dance--this fearful woman--had broken up a home; deserted her
children at an age when a mother’s guidance was all they needed, with
an unnatural indifference towards her offspring that one might have
sought for in vain amidst the lowest animals; and adding parricide as
a _coup_ to her already dark career, was yet but on the verge of the
terrible line she had marked out to be pursued. Woman, in her love and
gentleness, in her ministering care and patient endurance, when all
the holiest attributes of her sex exist in her character, approaches
far nearer to the angel than her companion, man. Alas! it is equally
true, that in the absence of these characteristics she sinks far
deeper in approximating to the demon!
Gaudin de Sainte-Croix had studiously avoided Marie in the Salle de
Bal. The reports which had crept about Paris rendered them both
cautious, for the present, of their deportment, although they were
about to set all restraint at defiance. Whilst she was dancing, he had
walked out into the gardens of the palace, that the night air might
come cold and refreshing upon his brow, fevered with the events of the
last few hours. He had told her as he left where she would find him
when the dance concluded; and he now sauntered towards the rendezvous
in question.
There formerly existed in the gardens of Versailles, at the right
angle of the central body of the palace, where the north wing now
stands, a fountain and cavern of marvellous construction, called the
Grotto of Thetis. The chapel at present occupies its site, built by
Louis in 1699, when, under the influence of Madame de Maintenon, his
pursuits changed from those of the most unbridled licentiousness to
the extreme of devotion. The statues which it contained, with some
fragments of its structure, may be seen at the present day by the
visitor to Versailles, in the _bosquet_ of the Bains d’Apollon. Three
arcades, closed by iron doors of exquisite workmanship, formed the
entrance to this grotto, on one of which a representation of the sun,
gilt and highly polished, was so artfully contrived as to catch the
rays of the real setting sun, and throw an almost magic light into the
interior. All the artists that Louis XIV. had about him were employed
in turn to ornament this delicious retreat. Perrault had designed the
architecture, and Lebrun the figures, with the exception of the
principal group, which was by Girardon, still existing, and
represented Apollo attended by his nymphs, in the midst of the sheets
of water flowing on all sides over rock-work of mother-of-pearl and
coral.[14]
It was in this retreat, lighted by a few illustrated shades, which
cast a subdued warm light upon the groups of statuary and plashing
water, that Gaudin awaited the Marchioness. Nor was he long in
expectation. Little time elapsed before Marie’s step was heard upon
the terrace, and she entered the grotto. Gaudin took her hand and led
her to a seat. There was still no trace of emotion from the late
terrible intelligence: her hand was cool, and her step equal and
unfaltering. On the other hand, Sainte-Croix was pale and agitated: he
might have felt less than the Marchioness, but his outward demeanour
was a clearer index to his feelings.
‘Why do you not speak, Gaudin?’ asked Marie, as her lover had remained
some minutes in silence: ‘and you are pale as this cold marble! What
has occurred?’
‘It is the ghastly light of the lamp,’ said Gaudin. ‘I am well--quite
well--could I be otherwise when all has prospered?’
‘I will tell you what you are thinking of,’ returned the Marchioness,
as she riveted her basilisk eyes upon Sainte-Croix: ‘I should be but a
poor enchantress if I could not read your inmost thoughts. It is the
reaction of your spirit, Gaudin. The cord has been stretched too
tightly, and it has broken; you know that a fearful tie has now bound
us to each other, and for the first time you feel that I am a clog
upon your free actions.’
‘You are mistaken, Marie,’ replied Sainte-Croix with energy, although
every word of the Marchioness thrilled through him. ‘I may call Heaven
to witness--’
‘Heaven!’ exclaimed his companion, interrupting him, and clutching his
arm with nervous force, as a sneer played over her beautiful
lips,--‘do not invoke that power again, Gaudin: what have we to do
with Heaven now? I put as little faith in your protestations made
before it, as you do in its testimony to your truth. We are both
without its pale,’ she added coldly.
‘What can I say, then, that you will trust me? Is there any oath I can
take that will give my asseverations weight with you, Marie? How will
you believe me?’
Gaudin half knelt before her as he spoke, and the large drops of agony
stole over his brow. He saw that the Marchioness was trying her power
over him, now that they had been so fearfully bound to each
other,--that she was playing with his feelings, until they could be
broken, and rendered servilely subservient to her will.
‘What oath will you have me take?’ he continued, as he threw the whole
intensity of his soul into every word. ‘Marie!--answer me, I implore
you,--if not from love, from pity at what I have undergone. If you
will not think of me as I believed you did, look on me as an animal
that was in pain and suffering from an evil you had caused. What means
this fearful revulsion of your feelings?’
He grasped her hands whilst he spoke, until the Marchioness felt them
as though they had been in a vice of hot iron. But she returned no
answer. That fearful aggravation which woman can exert with such
crushing power,--that frigid and apparently insensible demeanour, the
colder in proportion as the heart she has drawn into her toils is
anguished and convulsed, was driving Gaudin to distraction. ‘Marie!’
he again cried, ‘do you not believe in the love which I bear for you?’
‘It is not love, Sainte-Croix,’ at length she replied. ‘A liaison like
ours has little love to nourish its continuance; passion and jealousy
can be its only ties of endurance, and sooner or later it must end in
misery. It is my turn now to say--let us part, for ever.’
‘Part!’ cried Gaudin rapidly--‘never! What fearful change has passed
over your feelings? How can I assure you of my truth, Marie. Think on
what I underwent for your sake in the gloomy cells of the Bastille.
Look at me now--at your feet, so blindly, servilely in your power,
that I could hate myself for such concession, had not my reason taken
flight before your influence over me. Be satisfied with the crime--by
committing which both our souls are lost--as a sufficient safeguard of
our future attachment; if you will take no more human assurance.
Believe in me, if not from truth, from mutual guilt, and reign my
sole, adored one.’
Subdued by his overcharged feelings, his head fell upon the lap of the
Marchioness as he uttered the foregoing words with wild and
impassioned energy, and he burst into tears. It is a strange sight,
that of a man weeping: and when Marie saw a man like Gaudin de
Sainte-Croix thus overcome and at her feet, she was for the moment
affected. But she returned no answer; and would have remained silent
until her companion in guilt and passion again spoke, had not a sudden
interruption diverted her attention. A short hurried moan, which, low
as it was, teemed with anguish, sounding from the group of figures as
though one of the statues had uttered it, caused her to start
affrighted from the coral bank on which she was seated. Sainte-Croix
also heard it even through his excitement, and started to his feet;
whilst the Marchioness rushed immediately behind the statues to
discover the cause. There was another cry of alarm, and she returned
leading forth Louise Gauthier. The girl had sought a retreat from the
glare and tumult of the crowd within the grotto, previous to
Sainte-Croix’s arrival, and on his approach had retired behind the
statues to conceal herself, imagining until he spoke that he was some
lounger who had entered merely from curiosity, and would soon depart.
The calm expression on the features of the Marchioness for once gave
way to a withering look of hate and jealousy. Gaudin started back as
the words, ‘Louise Gauthier here!’ burst almost involuntarily from his
lips; and then, paralysed by the sudden apparition of the trembling
Languedocian, he remained silent.
The Marchioness was the first to speak.
‘So!’ she exclaimed, quivering with emotion, in a voice almost stifled
by her anger; ‘this was the reason that you named the grotto for a
rendezvous, and it appears I came too soon. There--take your latest
conquest--the servant of Madame Scarron. She is yours--we meet no
more.’
With a glance of contempt at Louise, she threw her arm away, and,
impelling her towards Sainte-Croix, was about to leave the grotto,
when Louise caught hold of her robe and tried to draw her back.
‘Stop, madame,’ she cried, ‘you are wrong. I was here by accident,--on
my soul, and by our Lady, this is the truth.’
There was an earnestness of appeal in her voice that caused the
Marchioness to stop. And perhaps her asseveration might have derived
additional force from the manner in which she called that power which
the others dared not look to, to witness her sincerity.
‘But you have met before,’ said Marie, after gazing at Louise for an
instant with the strangest of expressions; ‘you know each other.’
‘It was long ago,’ replied Louise despondingly, as she looked at
Sainte-Croix: ‘I would not have sought him; and yet, after what I have
heard,--for not a syllable of your conversation has escaped
me,--perhaps Providence sent me here to save him--to save you both.’
As she spoke she advanced towards Gaudin, and took his hand. There was
no attempt on the part of the Marchioness to stop her. Her curiosity
was singularly roused as she watched the progress of this strange
interview.
‘Do not speak to me, Louise,’ exclaimed Sainte-Croix, with averted
face, and struggling with his feelings. ‘Leave me, I beseech you.’
‘I am going to leave you, Gaudin,’ she replied; ‘and I shall never
trouble you more. I did not willingly intrude upon you now, for I knew
that all had long since passed away between us--even the recollection
of what once was. I am sorry that we have met.’
‘You have my thanks for this interposition, girl,’ said the
Marchioness; ‘for my eyes have been opened through it. Monsieur de
Sainte-Croix,’ she added coldly to Gaudin, ‘there is little
confidence, it appears, between us. I should be sorry to come in upon
an old attachment. This _lady_ can still be yours.’
‘Heed her not, Marie,’ cried Sainte-Croix, after a powerful effort to
master his feelings. ‘I had no other motive in concealing this from
you than the wish to spare you. Believe in me still. This has been
madness--infatuation--call it what name you will, but you are the only
one I ever loved.’
And he advanced towards the Marchioness; whilst Louise, pale as death,
gasped forth hurriedly--
‘This is indeed cruel; but even now you have yet to learn what woman
can put up with from affection. You know your secrets are in my
possession.’
‘You threaten us!’ said Marie furiously.
‘Far from it,’ replied the other; ‘I would save rather than destroy
you. Gaudin! I am ignorant what fearful influence has spellbound your
better feelings; but I know that such is not your nature. Have I the
slightest power--discarded, heart-broken as I am--that can snatch you
from these fearful toils?’
‘Our absence will be remarked,’ observed the Marchioness coldly to
Sainte-Croix; ‘let us rejoin the court.’
‘Hear me,’ cried Louise, seizing Gaudin’s hand, ‘for the last time
perhaps on earth--hear me, Gaudin. By the recollection of what we once
were to each other, although you scorn me now, and the shadowy
remembrance of old times, before these terrible circumstances,
whatever they may be, had thus turned your heart from me, and from
your God. There is still time to make amends for all that has
occurred. I do not speak for myself, for all those feelings have
passed; but for you alone. Repent, and be happy,--for happy now you
are not.’
[image: img_10.jpg
caption: The Good and Evil Angels]
Gaudin made no reply, but his bosom heaved rapidly, betraying his
internal emotion. Once he turned towards Louise Gauthier as if to
speak: the words died on his tongue.
‘This is idle talk,’ said the Marchioness, as she drew Sainte-Croix to
her side. ‘If you would not be taken for our accomplice, girl, you
will keep silent as to what you have heard. Sainte-Croix, you are
stupefied by this person’s raving. Will you not come with me, Gaudin?’
She seized his hand, and rapidly changing the tone of anger she had
adopted to one of softness and affection, gazed tenderly at her lover,
as her fair countenance resumed its tranquillity, and her eyes,
beaming with gentleness and light, looked into Sainte-Croix’s, with an
expression that thrilled his very soul.
‘Marie!’ cried Gaudin faintly, ‘take me where you list. In life or
after it,--on earth or in hell, I am yours--yours only.’
A flush of triumph passed over her face as she led Sainte-Croix from
the grotto, leaving Louise Gauthier clinging to one of the statues for
support--so pale, that she might have been taken for another figure of
the group, but for the violent emotion that agitated her slight and
trembling frame.