What his Majesty King Louis XIV. was at the Age of Twenty-Two
It has been seen, by the account we have endeavored to give of it, that
the entree of King Louis XIV. into the city of Blois had been noisy and
brilliant his young majesty had therefore appeared perfectly satisfied
with it.
On arriving beneath the porch of the Castle of the States, the king
met, surrounded by his guards and gentlemen, with S. A. R. the duke,
Gaston of Orleans, whose physiognomy, naturally rather majestic, had
borrowed on this solemn occasion a fresh luster and a fresh dignity. On
her part, Madame, dressed in her robes of ceremony, awaited, in the
interior balcony, the entrance of her nephew. All the windows of the
old castle, so deserted and dismal on ordinary days, were resplendent
with ladies and lights.
It was then to the sound of drums, trumpets, and vivats, that the young
king crossed the threshold of that castle in which, seventy-two years
before, Henry III. had called in the aid of assassination and treachery
to keep upon his head and in his house a crown which was already
slipping from his brow, to fall into another family.
All eyes, after having admired the young king, so handsome and so
agreeable, sought for that other king of France, much otherwise king
than the former, and so old, so pale, so bent, that people called him
the Cardinal Mazarin.
Louis was at this time endowed with all the natural gifts which make
the perfect gentleman; his eye was brilliant, mild, and of a clear
azure blue. But the most skillful physiognomists, those divers into the
soul, on fixing their looks upon it, if it had been possible for a
subject to sustain the glance of the king,—the most skillful
physiognomists, we say, would never have been able to fathom the depths
of that abyss of mildness. It was with the eyes of the king as with the
immense depths of the azure heavens, or with those more terrific, and
almost as sublime, which the Mediterranean reveals under the keels of
its ships in a clear summer day, a gigantic mirror in which heaven
delights to reflect sometimes its stars, sometimes its storms.
The king was short of stature—he was scarcely five feet two inches: but
his youth made up for this defect, set off likewise by great nobleness
in all his movements, and by considerable address in all bodily
exercises.
Certes, he was already quite a king, and it was a great thing to be a
king in that period of traditional devotedness and respect; but as, up
to that time, he had been but seldom and always poorly shown to the
people, as they to whom he was shown saw him by the side of his mother,
a tall woman, and monsieur le cardinal, a man of commanding presence,
many found him so little of a king as to say,—
“Why, the king is not so tall as monsieur le cardinal!”
Whatever may be thought of these physical observations, which were
principally made in the capital, the young king was welcomed as a god
by the inhabitants of Blois, and almost like a king by his uncle and
aunt, Monsieur and Madame, the inhabitants of the castle.
It must, however, be allowed, that when he saw, in the hall of
reception, chairs of equal height placed for himself, his mother, the
cardinal, and his uncle and aunt, a disposition artfully concealed by
the semicircular form of the assembly, Louis XIV. became red with
anger, and looked around him to ascertain by the countenances of those
that were present, if this humiliation had been prepared for him. But
as he saw nothing upon the impassible visage of the cardinal, nothing
on that of his mother, nothing on those of the assembly, he resigned
himself, and sat down, taking care to be seated before anybody else.
The gentlemen and ladies were presented to their majesties and monsieur
le cardinal.
The king remarked that his mother and he scarcely knew the names of any
of the persons who were presented to them; whilst the cardinal, on the
contrary never failed, with an admirable memory and presence of mind,
to talk to every one about his estates, his ancestors, or his children,
some of whom he named, which enchanted those worthy country gentlemen,
and confirmed them in the idea that he alone is truly king who knows
his subjects, from the same reason that the sun has no rival, because
the sun alone warms and lightens.
The study of the young king, which had begun a long time before,
without anybody suspecting it, was continued then, and he looked around
him attentively to endeavor to make out something in the physiognomies
which had at first appeared the most insignificant and trivial.
A collation was served. The king, without daring to call upon the
hospitality of his uncle, had waited for it impatiently. This time,
therefore, he had all the honors due, if not to his rank, at least to
his appetite.
As to the cardinal, he contented himself with touching with his
withered lips a bouillon, served in a gold cup. The all-powerful
minister, who had taken her regency from the queen, and his royalty
from the king, had not been able to take a good stomach from nature.
Anne of Austria, already suffering from the cancer which six or eight
years after caused her death, ate very little more than the cardinal.
For Monsieur, already puffed up with the great event which had taken
place in his provincial life, he ate nothing whatever.
Madame alone, like a true Lorrainer, kept pace with his majesty; so
that Louis XIV., who, without this partner, might have eaten nearly
alone, was at first much pleased with his aunt, and afterwards with M.
de Saint-Remy, her maitre d’hotel, who had really distinguished
himself.
The collation over, at a sign of approbation from M. de Mazarin, the
king arose, and, at the invitation of his aunt, walked about among the
ranks of the assembly.
The ladies then observed—there are certain things for which women are
as good observers at Blois as at Paris—the ladies then observed that
Louis XIV. had a prompt and bold look, which premised a distinguished
appreciator of beauty. The men, on their part, observed that the prince
was proud and haughty, that he loved to look down those who fixed their
eyes upon him too long or too earnestly, which gave presage of a
master.
Louis XIV. had accomplished about a third of his review when his ears
were struck with a word which his eminence pronounced whilst conversing
with Monsieur.
This word was the name of a woman.
Scarcely had Louis XIV. heard this word than he heard, or rather
listened to nothing else; and neglecting the arc of the circle which
awaited his visit, his object seemed to be to come as quickly as
possible to the extremity of the curve.
Monsieur, like a good courtier, was inquiring of monsieur le cardinal
after the health of his nieces; he regretted, he said, not having the
pleasure of receiving them at the same time with their uncle; they must
certainly have grown in stature, beauty and grace, as they had promised
to do the last time Monsieur had seen them.
What had first struck the king was a certain contrast in the voices of
the two interlocutors. The voice of Monsieur was calm and natural while
he spoke thus; while that of M. de Mazarin jumped by a note and a half
to reply above the diapason of his usual voice. It might have been said
that he wished that voice to strike, at the end of the salon, any ear
that was too distant.
“Monseigneur,” replied he, “Mesdemoiselles de Mazarin have still to
finish their education: they have duties to fulfill, and a position to
make. An abode in a young and brilliant court would dissipate them a
little.”
Louis, at this last sentence, smiled sadly. The court was young, it was
true, but the avarice of the cardinal had taken good care that it
should not be brilliant.
“You have nevertheless no intention,” replied Monsieur, “to cloister
them or make them bourgeoises?”
“Not at all,” replied the cardinal, forcing his Italian pronunciation
in such a manner that, from soft and velvety as it was, it became sharp
and vibrating, “not at all: I have a full and fixed intention to marry
them, and that as well as I shall be able.”
“Parties will not be wanting, monsieur le cardinal,” replied Monsieur,
with a bonhomie worthy of one tradesman congratulating another.
“I hope not, monseigneur, and with reason, as God has been pleased to
give them grace, intelligence, and beauty.”
During this conversation, Louis XIV., conducted by Madame,
accomplished, as we have described, the circle of presentations.
“Mademoiselle Auricule,” said the princess, presenting to his majesty a
fat, fair girl of two-and-twenty, who at a village fete might have been
taken for a peasant in Sunday finery,—“the daughter of my
music-mistress.”
The king smiled. Madame had never been able to extract four correct
notes from either viol or harpsichord.
“Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais,” continued Madame, “a young lady of
rank, and my good attendant.”
This time it was not the king that smiled; it was the young lady
presented, because, for the first time in her life, she heard, given to
her by Madame, who generally showed no tendency to spoil her, such an
honorable qualification.
Our old acquaintance Montalais, therefore, made his majesty a profound
courtesy, the more respectful from the necessity she was under of
concealing certain contractions of her laughing lips, which the king
might not have attributed to their real cause.
It was just at this moment that the king caught the word which startled
him.
“And the name of the third?” asked Monsieur.
“Mary, monseigneur,” replied the cardinal.
There was doubtless some magical influence in that word, for, as we
have said, the king started at hearing it, and drew Madame towards the
middle of the circle, as if he wished to put some confidential question
to her, but, in reality, for the sake of getting nearer to the
cardinal.
“Madame my aunt,” said he, laughing, and in a suppressed voice, “my
geography-master did not teach me that Blois was at such an immense
distance from Paris.”
“What do you mean, nephew?” asked Madame.
“Why, because it would appear that it requires several years, as
regards fashion, to travel the distance!—Look at those young ladies!”
“Well; I know them all.”
“Some of them are pretty.”
“Don’t say that too loud, monsieur my nephew; you will drive them
wild.”
“Stop a bit, stop a bit, dear aunt!” said the king, smiling; “for the
second part of my sentence will serve as a corrective to the first.
Well, my dear aunt, some of them appear old and others ugly, thanks to
their ten-year-old fashions.”
“But, sire, Blois is only five days, journey from Paris.”
“Yes, that is it,” said the king: “two years behind for each day.”
“Indeed! do you really think so? Well, that is strange! It never struck
me.”
“Now, look, aunt,” said Louis XIV., drawing still nearer to Mazarin,
under the pretext of gaining a better point of view, “look at that
simple white dress by the side of those antiquated specimens of finery,
and those pretentious coiffures. She is probably one of my mother’s
maids of honor, though I don’t know her.”
“Ah! ah! my dear nephew!” replied Madame, laughing, “permit me to tell
you that your divinatory science is at fault for once. The young lady
you honor with your praise is not a Parisian, but a Blaisoise.”
“Oh, aunt!” replied the king with a look of doubt.
“Come here, Louise,” said Madame.
And the fair girl, already known to you under that name, approached
them, timid, blushing, and almost bent beneath the royal glance.
“Mademoiselle Louise Francoise de la Baume le Blanc, the daughter of
the Marquise de la Vallière,” said Madame, ceremoniously.
The young girl bowed with so much grace, mingled with the profound
timidity inspired by the presence of the king, that the latter lost,
while looking at her, a few words of the conversation of Monsieur and
the cardinal.
“Daughter-in-law,” continued Madame, “of M. de Saint-Remy, my maitre
d’hotel, who presided over the confection of that excellent daube
truffee which your majesty seemed so much to appreciate.”
No grace, no youth, no beauty, could stand out against such a
presentation. The king smiled. Whether the words of Madame were a
pleasantry, or uttered in all innocency, they proved the pitiless
immolation of everything that Louis had found charming or poetic in the
young girl. Mademoiselle de la Vallière, for Madame and, by rebound,
for the king, was, for a moment, no more than the daughter of a man of
a superior talent over dindes truffees.
But princes are thus constituted. The gods, too, were just like this in
Olympus. Diana and Venus, no doubt, abused the beautiful Alcmena and
poor Io, when they condescended, for distraction’s sake, to speak,
amidst nectar and ambrosia, of mortal beauties, at the table of
Jupiter.
Fortunately, Louise was so bent in her reverential salute, that she did
not catch either Madame’s words or the king’s smile. In fact, if the
poor child, who had so much good taste as alone to have chosen to dress
herself in white amidst all her companions—if that dove’s heart, so
easily accessible to painful emotions, had been touched by the cruel
words of Madame, or the egotistical cold smile of the king, it would
have annihilated her.
And Montalais herself, the girl of ingenious ideas, would not have
attempted to recall her to life; for ridicule kills beauty even.
But fortunately, as we have said, Louise, whose ears were buzzing, and
her eyes veiled by timidity,—Louise saw nothing and heard nothing; and
the king, who had still his attention directed to the conversation of
the cardinal and his uncle, hastened to return to them.
He came up just at the moment Mazarin terminated by saying: “Mary, as
well as her sisters, has just set off for Brouage. I make them follow
the opposite bank of the Loire to that along which we have traveled;
and if I calculate their progress correctly, according to the orders I
have given, they will to-morrow be opposite Blois.”
These words were pronounced with that tact—that measure, that
distinctness of tone, of intention, and reach—which made del Signor
Giulio Mazarini the first comedian in the world.
It resulted that they went straight to the heart of Louis XIV., and the
cardinal, on turning round at the simple noise of the approaching
footsteps of his majesty, saw the immediate effect of them upon the
countenance of his pupil, an effect betrayed to the keen eyes of his
eminence by a slight increase of color. But what was the ventilation of
such a secret to him whose craft had for twenty years deceived all the
diplomatists of Europe?
From the moment the young king heard these last words, he appeared as
if he had received a poisoned arrow in his heart. He could not remain
quiet in a place, but cast around an uncertain, dead, and aimless look
over the assembly. He with his eyes interrogated his mother more than
twenty times: but she, given up to the pleasure of conversing with her
sister-in-law, and likewise constrained by the glance of Mazarin, did
not appear to comprehend any of the supplications conveyed by the looks
of her son.
From this moment, music, lights, flowers, beauties, all became odious
and insipid to Louis XIV. After he had a hundred times bitten his lips,
stretched his legs and his arms like a well-brought-up child who,
without daring to gape, exhausts all the modes of evincing his
weariness—after having uselessly again implored his mother and the
minister, he turned a despairing look towards the door, that is to say,
towards liberty.
At this door, in the embrasure of which he was leaning, he saw,
standing out strongly, a figure with a brown and lofty countenance, an
aquiline nose, a stern but brilliant eye, gray and long hair, a black
mustache, the true type of military beauty, whose gorget, more
sparkling than a mirror, broke all the reflected lights which
concentrated upon it, and sent them back as lightning. This officer
wore his gray hat with its long red plumes upon his head, a proof that
he was called there by his duty, and not by his pleasure. If he had
been brought thither by his pleasure—if he had been a courtier instead
of a soldier, as pleasure must always be paid for at the same price—he
would have held his hat in his hand.
That which proved still better that this officer was upon duty, and was
accomplishing a task to which he was accustomed, was, that he watched,
with folded arms, remarkable indifference, and supreme apathy, the joys
and ennuis of this fete. Above all, he appeared, like a philosopher,
and all old soldiers are philosophers,—he appeared above all to
comprehend the ennuis infinitely better than the joys; but in the one
he took his part, knowing very well how to do without the other.
Now, he was leaning, as we have said, against the carved door-frame
when the melancholy, weary eyes of the king, by chance, met his.
It was not the first time, as it appeared, that the eyes of the officer
had met those eyes, and he was perfectly acquainted with the expression
of them; for, as soon as he had cast his own look upon the countenance
of Louis XIV., and had read by it what was passing in his heart—that is
to say, all the ennui that oppressed him—all the timid desire to go out
which agitated him,—he perceived he must render the king a service
without his commanding it,—almost in spite of himself. Boldly,
therefore, as if he had given the word of command to cavalry in battle,
“On the king’s service!” cried he, in a clear, sonorous voice.
At these words, which produced the effect of a peal of thunder,
prevailing over the orchestra, the singing and the buzz of the
promenaders, the cardinal and the queen-mother looked at each other
with surprise.
Louis XIV., pale, but resolved, supported as he was by that intuition
of his own thought which he had found in the mind of the officer of
musketeers, and which he had just manifested by the order given, arose
from his chair, and took a step towards the door.
“Are you going, my son?” said the queen, whilst Mazarin satisfied
himself with interrogating by a look which might have appeared mild if
it had not been so piercing.
“Yes, madame,” replied the king; “I am fatigued, and, besides, wish to
write this evening.”
A smile stole over the lips of the minister, who appeared, by a bend of
the head, to give the king permission.
Monsieur and Madame hastened to give orders to the officers who
presented themselves.
The king bowed, crossed the hall, and gained the door, where a hedge of
twenty musketeers awaited him. At the extremity of this hedge stood the
officer, impassible, with his drawn sword in his hand. The king passed,
and all the crowd stood on tip-toe, to have one more look at him.
Ten musketeers, opening the crowd of the ante-chambers and the steps,
made way for his majesty. The other ten surrounded the king and
Monsieur, who had insisted upon accompanying his majesty. The domestics
walked behind. This little cortege escorted the king to the chamber
destined for him. The apartment was the same that had been occupied by
Henry III. during his sojourn in the States.
Monsieur had given his orders. The musketeers, led by their officer,
took possession of the little passage by which one wing of the castle
communicates with the other. This passage was commenced by a small
square ante-chamber, dark even in the finest days. Monsieur stopped
Louis XIV.
“You are passing now, sire,” said he, “the very spot where the Duc de
Guise received the first stab of the poniard.”
The king was ignorant of all historical matters; he had heard of the
fact, but he knew nothing of the localities or the details.
“Ah!” said he with a shudder.
And he stopped. The rest, both behind and before him, stopped likewise.
“The duc, sire,” continued Gaston, “was nearly where I stand: he was
walking in the same direction as your majesty; M. de Lorgnes was
exactly where your lieutenant of musketeers is; M. de Saint-Maline and
his majesty’s ordinaries were behind him and around him. It was here
that he was struck.”
The king turned towards his officer, and saw something like a cloud
pass over his martial and daring countenance.
“Yes, from behind!” murmured the lieutenant, with a gesture of supreme
disdain. And he endeavored to resume the march, as if ill at ease at
being between walls formerly defiled by treachery.
But the king, who appeared to wish to be informed, was disposed to give
another look at this dismal spot.
Gaston perceived his nephew’s desire.
“Look, sire,” said he, taking a flambeau from the hands of M. de
Saint-Remy, “this is where he fell. There was a bed there, the curtains
of which he tore with catching at them.”
“Why does the floor seem hollowed out at this spot?” asked Louis.
“Because it was here the blood flowed,” replied Gaston; “the blood
penetrated deeply into the oak, and it was only by cutting it out that
they succeeded in making it disappear. And even then,” added Gaston,
pointing the flambeau to the spot, “even then this red stain resisted
all the attempts made to destroy it.”
Louis XIV. raised his head. Perhaps he was thinking of that bloody
trace that had once been shown him at the Louvre, and which, as a
pendant to that of Blois, had been made there one day by the king his
father with the blood of Concini.
“Let us go on,” said he.
The march was resumed promptly, for emotion, no doubt, had given to the
voice of the young prince a tone of command which was not customary
with him. When arrived at the apartment destined for the king, which
communicated not only with the little passage we have passed through,
but further with the great staircase leading to the court,—
“Will your majesty,” said Gaston, “condescend to occupy this apartment,
all unworthy as it is to receive you?”
“Uncle,” replied the young king, “I render you my thanks for your
cordial hospitality.”
Gaston bowed to his nephew, embraced him, and then went out.
Of the twenty musketeers who had accompanied the king, ten reconducted
Monsieur to the reception-rooms, which were not yet empty,
notwithstanding the king had retired.
The ten others were posted by their officer, who himself explored, in
five minutes, all the localities, with that cold and certain glance
which not even habit gives unless that glance belongs to genius.
Then, when all were placed, he chose as his headquarters the
ante-chamber, in which he found a large fauteuil, a lamp, some wine,
some water: and some dry bread.
He refreshed his lamp, drank half a glass of wine, curled his lip with
a smile full of expression, installed himself in his large armchair,
and made preparations for sleeping.