When one of Madame de Montespan's children died, the King was deeply
affected; but he was not so at the death of the poor Comte de Vermandois
(the son of La Valliere). He could not bear him, because Montespan and
that old Maintenon had made him believe the youth was not his but the Duc
de Lauzun's child. It had been well if all the King's reputed children
had been as surely his as this was. Madame de La Valliere was no light
mistress, as her unwavering penitence sufficiently proved. She was an
amiable, gentle, kind and tender woman. Ambition formed no part of her
love for the King; she had a real passion for him, and never loved any
other person. It was at Montespan's instigation that the King behaved so
ill to her. The poor creature's heart was broken, but she imagined that
she could not make a sacrifice more agreeable to God than that which had
been the cause of her errors; and thought that her repentance ought to
proceed from the same source as her crime. She therefore remained, by
way of self-mortification, with Montespan, who, having a great portion of
wit, did not scruple to ridicule her publicly, behaved extremely ill to
her, and obliged the King to do the same.
He used to pass through La Valliere's chamber to go to Montespan's; and
one day, at the instigation of the latter, he threw a little spaniel,
which he had called Malice, at the Duchesse de La Valliere, saying:
"There, Madam, is your companion; that's all."
This was the more cruel, as he was then going direct to Montespan's
chamber. And yet La Valliere bore everything patiently; she was as
virtuous as Montespan was vicious. Her connection with the King might be
pardoned, when it was remembered that everybody had not only advised her
to it, but had even assisted to bring it about. The King was young,
handsome and gallant; she was, besides, very young; she was naturally
modest, and had a very good heart. She was very much grieved when she
was made a Duchess, and her children legitimated; before that she thought
no one knew she had had children. There was an inexpressible charm in
her countenance, her figure was elegant, her eyes were always in my
opinion much finer than Montespan's, and her whole deportment was
unassuming. She was slightly lame, but not so much as to impair her
appearance.
When I first arrived in France she had not retired to the convent, but
was still in the Court. We became and continued very intimate until she
took the veil. I was deeply affected when this charming person took that
resolution; and, at the moment when the funeral pall was thrown over her,
I shed so many tears that I could see no more. She visited me after the
ceremony, and told me that I should rather congratulate than weep for
her, for that from that moment her happiness was to begin: she added that
she should never forget the kindness and friendship I had displayed
towards her, and which was so much more than she deserved. A short time
afterwards I went to see her. I was curious to know why she had remained
so long in the character of an attendant to Montespan. She told me that
God had touched her heart, and made her sensible of her crimes; that she
felt she ought to perform a penitence, and suffer that which would be
most painful to her, which was to love the King, and to be despised by
him; that for the three years after the King had ceased to love her she
had suffered the torments of the damned, and that she offered her sorrows
to Heaven as the expiation of her sins; and as her sins had been public,
so should be her repentance. She said she knew very well that she had
been taken for a fool, who was not sensible of anything; but that at the
very period she alluded to she suffered most, and continued to do so
until God inspired her with the resolution to abandon everything, and to
serve Him alone, which she had since put into execution; but that now she
considered herself unworthy, on account of her past life, to live in the
society of persons as pure and pious as the Carmelite Sisters. All this
evidently came from the heart.
From the time she became professed, she was entirely devoted to Heaven.
I often told her that she had only transposed her love, and had given to
God that which had formerly been the King's. She has said frequently
that if the King should come into the convent she would refuse to see
him, and would hide herself so that he could not find her. She was,
however, spared this pain, for the King not only never went, but seemed
to have forgotten her, as if he had never known her.
To accuse La Valliere of loving any one besides the King was wicked to
the last degree, but falsehoods cost Montespan but little. The Comte de
Vermandois was a good sort of young man, and loved me as if I had been
his mother. When his irregularities were first discovered,--[A more
particular account of these will be found hereafter.]--I was very angry
with him; and I had caused him to be told very seriously that if he had
behaved ill I should cease to have any regard for him. This grieved him
to the heart; he sent to me daily, and begged permission to say only a
few words to me. I was firm during four weeks; at length I permitted him
to come, when he threw himself at my feet, begged my pardon, promising to
amend his conduct, and beseeching me to restore him my friendship
(without which he said he could not exist), and to assist him again with
my advice. He told me the whole history of his follies, and convinced me
that he had been most grossly deluded.
When the Dauphine lay in of the Duke of Burgundy, I said to the King,
"I hope your Majesty will not upon this occasion refuse a humble request
I have to make to you."
He smiled and said, "What have you to ask, then?"
I replied, "The pardon, Monsieur, of the poor Comte de Vermandois."
He smiled once more, and said, "You are a very good friend; but as for M.
Vermandois, he has not been sufficiently punished for his crimes."
"The poor lad," I rejoined, "is so very penitent for his offence."
The King replied, "I do not yet feel myself inclined to see him; I am too
angry with him still."
Several months elapsed before the King would see him; but the young man
was very grateful to me for having spoken in his behalf; and my own
children could not be more attached to me than he was. He was well made,
but his appearance, though not disagreeable, was not remarkably good; he
squinted a little.