La Vallière followed the patrol as it left the courtyard. The
patrol bent its steps towards the right, by the Rue St. Honore,
and mechanically La Vallière turned to the left. Her resolution was
taken--her determination fixed; she wished to betake herself to the
convent of the Carmelites at Chaillot, the superior of which enjoyed
a reputation for severity which made the worldly-minded people of the
court tremble. La Vallière had never seen Paris, she had never gone out
on foot, and so would have been unable to find her way even had she been
in a calmer frame of mind than was then the case; and this may explain
why she ascended, instead of descending, the Rue St. Honore. Her only
thought was to get away from the Palais Royal, and this she was doing;
she had heard it said that Chaillot looked out upon the Seine, and she
accordingly directed her steps towards the Seine. She took the Rue de
Coq, and not being able to cross the Louvre, bore towards the church of
Saint Germain l’Auxerrois, proceeding along the site of the colonnade
which was subsequently built there by Perrault. In a very short time she
reached the quays. Her steps were rapid and agitated; she scarcely felt
the weakness which reminded her of having sprained her foot when very
young, and which obliged her to limp slightly. At any other hour in
the day her countenance would have awakened the suspicions of the least
clear-sighted, attracted the attention of the most indifferent. But at
half-past two in the morning, the streets of Paris are almost, if not
quite, deserted, and scarcely is any one to be seen but the hard-working
artisan on his way to earn his daily bread or the roistering idlers of
the streets, who are returning to their homes after a night of riot and
debauchery; for the former the day was beginning, and for the latter
it was just closing. La Vallière was afraid of both faces, in which her
ignorance of Parisian types did not permit her to distinguish the type
of probity from that of dishonesty. The appearance of misery alarmed
her, and all she met seemed either vile or miserable. Her dress, which
was the same she had worn during the previous evening, was elegant even
in its careless disorder; for it was the one in which she had presented
herself to the queen-mother; and, moreover, when she drew aside the
mantle which covered her face, in order to enable her to see the way she
was going, her pallor and her beautiful eyes spoke an unknown language
to the men she met, and, unconsciously, the poor fugitive seemed
to invite the brutal remarks of the one class, or to appeal to the
compassion of the other. La Vallière still walked on in the same way,
breathless and hurried, until she reached the top of the Place de Greve.
She stopped from time to time, placed her hand upon her heart, leaned
against a wall until she could breathe freely again, and then continued
on her course more rapidly than before. On reaching the Place de Greve
La Vallière suddenly came upon a group of three drunken men, reeling and
staggering along, who were just leaving a boat which they had made fast
to the quay; the boat was freighted with wines, and it was apparent that
they had done ample justice to the merchandise. They were celebrating
their convivial exploits in three different keys, when suddenly, as they
reached the end of the railing leading down to the quay, they found an
obstacle in their path, in the shape of this young girl. La Vallière
stopped; while they, on their part, at the appearance of the young girl
dressed in court costume, also halted, and seizing each other by the
hand, they surrounded La Vallière, singing,--
“Oh! all ye weary wights, who mope alone, Come drink, and sing and
laugh, round Venus’ throne.”
La Vallière at once understood that the men were insulting her, and
wished to prevent her passing; she tried to do so several times, but
her efforts were useless. Her limbs failed her; she felt she was on the
point of falling, and uttered a cry of terror. At the same moment
the circle which surrounded her was suddenly broken through in a most
violent manner. One of her insulters was knocked to the left, another
fell rolling over and over to the right, close to the water’s edge,
while the third could hardly keep his feet. An officer of the musketeers
stood face to face with the young girl, with threatening brow and hand
raised to carry out his threat. The drunken fellows, at sight of the
uniform, made their escape with what speed their staggering limbs could
lend them, all the more eagerly for the proof of strength which the
wearer of the uniform had just afforded them.
“Is it possible,” exclaimed the musketeer, “that it can be Mademoiselle
de la Vallière?”
La Vallière, bewildered by what had just happened, and confounded by
hearing her name pronounced, looked up and recognized D’Artagnan. “Oh,
M. d’Artagnan! it is indeed I;” and at the same moment she seized
his arm. “You will protect me, will you not?” she added, in a tone of
entreaty.
“Most certainly I will protect you; but, in Heaven’s name, where are you
going at this hour?”
“I am going to Chaillot.”
“You are going to Chaillot by way of La Rapee! why, mademoiselle, you
are turning your back upon it.”
“In that case, monsieur, be kind enough to put me in the right way, and
to go with me a short distance.”
“Most willingly.”
“But how does it happen that I have found you here? By what merciful
intervention were you sent to my assistance? I almost seem to be
dreaming, or to be losing my senses.”
“I happened to be here, mademoiselle, because I have a house in the
Place de Greve, at the sign of the Notre-Dame, the rent of which I went
to receive yesterday, and where I, in fact, passed the night. And I
also wished to be at the palace early, for the purposes of inspecting my
posts.”
“Thank you,” said La Vallière.
“That is what _I_ was doing,” said D’Artagnan to himself; “but what is
_she_ doing, and why is she going to Chaillot at such an hour?” And he
offered her his arm, which she took, and began to walk with increased
precipitation, which ill-concealed, however, her weakness. D’Artagnan
perceived it, and proposed to La Vallière that she should take a little
rest, which she refused.
“You are ignorant, perhaps, where Chaillot is?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“Quite so.”
“It is a great distance.”
“That matters very little.”
“It is at least a league.”
“I can walk it.”
D’Artagnan did not reply; he could tell, merely by the tone of a voice,
when a resolution was real or not. He rather bore along rather than
accompanied La Vallière, until they perceived the elevated ground of
Chaillot.
“What house are you going to, mademoiselle?” inquired D’Artagnan.
“To the Carmelites, monsieur.”
“To the Carmelites?” repeated D’Artagnan, in amazement.
“Yes; and since Heaven has directed you towards me to give me your
support on my road, accept both my thanks and my adieux.”
“To the Carmelites! Your adieux! Are you going to become a nun?”
exclaimed D’Artagnan.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“What, you!!!” There was in this “you,” which we have marked by
three notes of exclamation in order to render it as expressive as
possible,--there was, we repeat, in this “you” a complete poem; it
recalled to La Vallière her old recollections of Blois, and her new
recollections of Fontainebleau; it said to her, “_You_, who might be
happy with Raoul; _you_, who might be powerful with Louis; _you_ about
to become a nun!”
“Yes, monsieur,” she said, “I am going to devote myself to the service
of Heaven; and to renounce the world entirely.”
“But are you not mistaken with regard to your vocation,--are you not
mistaken in supposing it to be the will of Heaven?”
“No, since Heaven has been pleased to throw you in my way. Had it not
been for you, I should certainly have sunk from fatigue on the road, and
since Heaven, I repeat, has thrown you in my way, it is because it has
willed that I should carry out my intention.”
“Oh!” said D’Artagnan, doubtingly, “that is a rather subtle distinction,
I think.”
“Whatever it may be,” returned the young girl, “I have acquainted you
with the steps I have taken, and with my fixed resolution. And, now, I
have one last favor to ask of you, even while I return you my thanks.
The king is entirely ignorant of my flight from the Palais Royal, and is
ignorant also of what I am about to do.”
“The king ignorant, you say!” exclaimed D’Artagnan. “Take care,
mademoiselle; you are not aware of what you are doing. No one ought to
do anything with which the king is unacquainted, especially those who
belong to the court.”
“I no longer belong to the court, monsieur.”
D’Artagnan looked at the young girl with increasing astonishment.
“Do not be uneasy, monsieur,” she continued: “I have well calculated
everything; and were it not so, it would now be too late to reconsider
my resolution,--all is decided.”
“Well, mademoiselle, what do you wish me to do?”
“In the name of that sympathy which misfortune inspires, by your
generous feeling, and by your honor as a gentleman, I entreat you to
promise me one thing.”
“Name it.”
“Swear to me, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that you will not tell the king that
you have seen me, and that I am at the Carmelites.”
“I will not swear that,” said D’Artagnan, shaking his head.
“Why?”
“Because I know the king, I know you, I know myself even, nay, the whole
human race, too well; no, no, I will not swear that!”
“In that case,” cried La Vallière, with an energy of which one would
hardly have thought her capable, “instead of the blessing which I should
have implored for you until my dying day, I will invoke a curse, for you
are rendering me the most miserable creature that ever lived.”
We have already observed that D’Artagnan could easily recognize the
accents of truth and sincerity, and he could not resist this last
appeal. He saw by her face how bitterly she suffered from a feeling of
degradation, he remarked her trembling limbs, how her whole slight and
delicate frame was violently agitated by some internal struggle, and
clearly perceived that resistance might be fatal. “I will do as you
wish, then,” he said. “Be satisfied, mademoiselle, I will say nothing to
the king.”
“Oh! thanks, thanks,” exclaimed La Vallière, “you are the most generous
man breathing.”
And in her extreme delight she seized hold of D’Artagnan’s hands
and pressed them between her own. D’Artagnan, who felt himself quite
overcome, said: “This is touching, upon my word; she begins where others
leave off.”
And La Vallière, who, in the bitterness of her distress, had sunk upon
the ground, rose and walked towards the convent of the Carmelites,
which could now, in the dawning light, be perceived just before them.
D’Artagnan followed her at a distance. The entrance-door was half-open;
she glided in like a shadow, and thanking D’Artagnan by a parting
gesture, disappeared from his sight. When D’Artagnan found himself quite
alone, he reflected very profoundly upon what had just taken place.
“Upon my word,” he said, “this looks very much like what is called a
false position. To keep such a secret as that, is to keep a burning coal
in one’s breeches-pocket, and trust that it may not burn the stuff.
And yet, not to keep it when I have sworn to do so is dishonorable. It
generally happens that some bright idea or other occurs to me as I am
going along; but I am very much mistaken if I shall not, now, have to go
a long way in order to find the solution of this affair. Yes, but which
way to go? Oh! towards Paris, of course; that is the best way, after
all. Only one must make haste, and in order to make haste four legs are
better than two, and I, unhappily, only have two. ‘A horse, a horse,’ as
I heard them say at the theatre in London, ‘my kingdom for a horse!’
And now I think of it, it need not cost me so much as that, for at the
Barriere de la Conference there is a guard of musketeers, and instead of
the one horse I need, I shall find ten there.”
So, in pursuance of this resolution, which he adopted with his usual
rapidity, D’Artagnan immediately turned his back upon the heights of
Chaillot, reached the guard-house, took the fastest horse he could find
there, and was at the palace in less than ten minutes. It was striking
five as he reached the Palais Royal. The king, he was told, had gone to
bed at his usual hour, having been long engaged with M. Colbert, and, in
all probability, was still sound asleep. “Come,” said D’Artagnan, “she
spoke the truth; the king is ignorant of everything; if he only knew
one-half of what has happened, the Palais Royal by this time would be
turned upside down.” [5]
Chapter XXVII. Showing How Louis, on His Part, Had Passed the Time from
Ten to Half-Past Twelve at Night.
When the king left the apartments of the maids of honor, he found
Colbert awaiting him to take directions for the next day’s ceremony, as
the king was then to receive the Dutch and Spanish ambassadors. Louis
XIV. had serious causes of dissatisfaction with the Dutch; the States
had already been guilty of many mean shifts and evasions with France,
and without perceiving or without caring about the chances of a rupture,
they again abandoned the alliance with his Most Christian Majesty, for
the purpose of entering into all kinds of plots with Spain. Louis XIV.
at his accession, that is to say, at the death of Cardinal Mazarin, had
found this political question roughly sketched out; the solution was
difficult for a young man, but as, at that time, the king represented
the whole nation, anything that the head resolved upon, the body would
be found ready to carry out. Any sudden impulse of anger, the reaction
of young hot blood upon the brain, would be quite sufficient to change
an old form of policy and create another system altogether. The part
that diplomatists had to play in those days was that of arranging among
themselves the different _coups-d’etat_ which their sovereign masters
might wish to effect. Louis was not in that calm frame of mind which was
necessary to enable him to determine on a wise course of policy. Still
much agitated from the quarrel he had just had with La Vallière,
he walked hastily into his cabinet, dimly desirous of finding an
opportunity of producing an explosion after he had controlled himself
for so long a time. Colbert, as he saw the king enter, knew the position
of affairs at a glance, understood the king’s intentions, and resolved
therefore to maneuver a little. When Louis requested to be informed what
it would be necessary to say on the morrow, Colbert began by expressing
his surprise that his majesty had not been properly informed by M.
Fouquet. “M. Fouquet,” he said, “is perfectly acquainted with the whole
of this Dutch affair--he received the dispatches himself direct.”
The king, who was accustomed to hear M. Colbert speak in not
over-scrupulous terms of M. Fouquet, allowed this remark to pass
unanswered, and merely listened. Colbert noticed the effect it had
produced, and hastened to back out, saying that M. Fouquet was not on
all occasions as blamable as at the first glance might seem to be the
case, inasmuch as at that moment he was greatly occupied. The king
looked up. “What do you allude to?” he said.
“Sire, men are but men, and M. Fouquet has his defects as well as his
great qualities.”
“Ah! defects, who is without them, M. Colbert?”
“Your majesty, hardly,” said Colbert, boldly; for he knew how to convey
a good deal of flattery in a light amount of blame, like the arrow which
cleaves the air notwithstanding its weight, thanks to the light feathers
which bear it up.
The king smiled. “What defect has M. Fouquet, then?” he said.
“Still the same, sire; it is said he is in love.”
“In love! with whom?”
“I am not quite sure, sire; I have very little to do with matters of
gallantry.”
“At all events you know, since you speak of it.”
“I have heard a name mentioned.”
“Whose?”
“I cannot now remember whose, but I think it is one of Madame’s maids of
honor.”
The king started. “You know more than you like to say, M. Colbert,” he
murmured.
“I assure you, no, sire.”
“At all events, Madame’s maids of honor are all known, and in mentioning
their names to you, you will perhaps recollect the one you allude to.”
“No, sire.”
“At least, try.”
“It would be useless, sire. Whenever the name of any lady who runs the
risk of being compromised is concerned, my memory is like a coffer of
bronze, the key of which I have lost.”
A dark cloud seemed to pass over the mind as well as across the face
of the king; then, wishing to appear as if he were perfect master of
himself and his feelings, he said, “And now for the affair concerning
Holland.”
“In the first place, sire, at what hour will your majesty receive the
ambassadors?”
“Early in the morning.”
“Eleven o’clock?”
“That is too late--say nine o’clock.”
“That will be too early, sire.”
“For friends, that would be a matter of no importance; one does what one
likes with one’s friends; but for one’s enemies, in that case nothing
could be better than if they _were_ to feel hurt. I should not be sorry,
I confess, to have to finish altogether with these marsh-birds, who
annoy me with their cries.”
“It shall be precisely as your majesty desires. At nine o’clock,
therefore--I will give the necessary orders. Is it to be a formal
audience?”
“No. I wish to have an explanation with them, and not to embitter
matters, as is always the case when many persons are present, but, at
the same time, I wish to clear up everything with them, in order not to
have to begin over again.”
“Your majesty will inform me of the persons whom you wish to be present
at the reception.”
“I will draw out a list. Let us speak of the ambassadors; what do they
want?”
“Allies with Spain, they gain nothing; allies with France, they lose
much.”
“How is that?”
“Allied with Spain, they see themselves bounded and protected by the
possessions of their allies; they cannot touch them, however anxious
they may be to do so. From Antwerp to Rotterdam is but a step, and that
by the way of the Scheldt and the Meuse. If they wish to make a bite at
the Spanish cake, you, sire, the son-in-law of the king of Spain, could
with your cavalry sweep the earth from your dominions to Brussels in a
couple of days. Their design is, therefore, only to quarrel so far with
you, and only to make you suspect Spain so far, as will be sufficient to
induce you not to interfere with their own affairs.”
“It would be far more simple, I should imagine,” replied the king,
“to form a solid alliance with me, by means of which I should gain
something, while they would gain everything.”
“Not so; for if, by chance, they were to have you, or France rather, as
a boundary, your majesty is not an agreeable neighbor. Young, ardent,
warlike, the king of France might inflict some serious mischief on
Holland, especially if he were to get near her.”
“I perfectly understand, M. Colbert, and you have explained it very
clearly; but be good enough to tell me the conclusion you have arrived
at.”
“Your majesty’s own decisions are never deficient in wisdom.”
“What will these ambassadors say to me?”
“They will tell your majesty that they are ardently desirous of forming
an alliance with you, which will be a falsehood: they will tell Spain
that the three powers ought to unite so as to check the prosperity
of England, and that will equally be a falsehood; for at present, the
natural ally of your majesty is England, who has ships while we have
none; England, who can counteract Dutch influence in India; England, in
fact, a monarchical country, to which your majesty is attached by ties
of relationship.”
“Good; but how would you answer?”
“I should answer, sire, with the greatest possible moderation of tone,
that the disposition of Holland does not seem friendly towards the
Court of France; that the symptoms of public feeling among the Dutch are
alarming as regards your majesty; that certain medals have been struck
with insulting devices.”
“Towards me?” exclaimed the young king, excitedly.
“Oh, no! sire, no; insulting is not the word; I was mistaken, I ought to
have said immeasurably flattering to the Dutch.”
“Oh! if that be so, the pride of the Dutch is a matter of indifference
to me,” said the king, sighing.
“Your majesty is right, a thousand times right. However, it is never
a mistake in politics, your majesty knows better than myself, to
exaggerate a little in order to obtain a concession in your own
favor. If your majesty were to complain as if your susceptibility were
offended, you would stand in a far higher position with them.”
“What are these medals you speak of?” inquired Louis; “for if I allude
to them, I ought to know what to say.”
“Upon my word, sire, I cannot very well tell you--some overweeningly
conceited device--that is the sense of it; the words have little to do
with the thing itself.”
“Very good! I will mention the word ‘medal,’ and they can understand it
if they like.”
“Oh! they will understand without any difficulty. Your majesty can also
slip in a few words about certain pamphlets which are being circulated.”
“Never! Pamphlets befoul those who write them much more than those
against whom they are written. M. Colbert, I thank you. You can leave
now. Do not forget the hour I have fixed, and be there yourself.”
“Sire, I await your majesty’s list.”
“True,” returned the king; and he began to meditate; he had not thought
of the list in the least. The clock struck half-past eleven. The king’s
face revealed a violent conflict between pride and love. The political
conversation had dispelled a good deal of the irritation which Louis had
felt, and La Vallière’s pale, worn features, in his imagination, spoke
a very different language from that of the Dutch medals, or the Batavian
pamphlets. He sat for ten minutes debating within himself whether he
should or should not return to La Vallière; but Colbert having with some
urgency respectfully requested that the list might be furnished him,
the king was ashamed to be thinking of mere matters of affection where
important state affairs required his attention. He therefore dictated:
the queen-mother, the queen, Madame, Madame de Motteville, Madame de
Chatillon, Madame de Navailles; and, for the men, M. le Prince, M. de
Gramont, M. de Manicamp, M. de Saint-Aignan, and the officers on duty.
“The ministers?” asked Colbert.
“As a matter of course, and the secretaries also.”
“Sire, I will leave at once in order to get everything prepared; the
orders will be at the different residences to-morrow.”
“Say rather to-day,” replied Louis mournfully, as the clock struck
twelve. It was the very hour when poor La Vallière was almost dying from
anguish and bitter suffering. The king’s attendants entered, it being
the hour of his retirement to his chamber; the queen, indeed, had
been waiting for more than an hour. Louis accordingly retreated to his
bedroom with a sigh; but, as he sighed, he congratulated himself on his
courage, and applauded himself for having been as firm in love as in
affairs of state.