First Vocation of Mademoiselle de la Valliere.--The King Surprises His
Mistress.--She is Forced to Retire to a Convent.--The King Hastens to
Take Her Back.--She Was Not Made for Court Life.--Her Farewell to the
King.--Sacrifice.--The Abbe de Bossuet.
What I am now about to relate, I have from her own lips, nor am I the
only one to whom she made such recitals and avowals.
Her father died when she was quite young, and, when dying, foresaw that
his widow, being without fortune or constancy, would ere long marry
again. To little Louise he was devotedly attached. Ardently embracing
her, he addressed her thus:
"In losing me, my poor little Louise, you lose all. What little there is
of my inheritance ought, undoubtedly, to belong to you; but I know your
mother; she will dispose of it. If my relatives do not show the interest
in you which your fatherless state should inspire, renounce this world
soon, where, separated from your father, there exists for you but danger
and misfortune. Two of my ancestors left their property to the nuns of
Saint Bernard at Gomer-Fontaines, as they are perfectly well aware. Go to
them in all confidence; they will receive you without a dowry even; it is
their duty to do so. If, disregarding my last counsel, you go astray in
the world, from the eternal abodes on high I will watch over you; I will
appear to you, if God empower me to do so; and, at any rate, from time to
time I will knock at the door of your heart to rouse you from your
baleful slumber and draw your attention to the sweet paths of light that
lead to God."
This speech of a dying father was graven upon the heart of a young girl
both timid and sensitive. She never forgot it; and it needed the fierce,
inexplicable passion which took possession of her soul to captivate her
and carry her away so far.
Before becoming attached to the King, she opened out her heart to me with
natural candour; and whenever in the country she observed the turrets or
the spire of a monastery, she sighed, and I saw her beautiful blue eyes
fill with tears.
She was maid of honour to the Princess Henrietta of England, and I filled
a like office. Our two companions, being the most quick-witted, durst
not talk about their love-affairs before Louise, so convinced were we of
her modesty, and almost of her piety.
In spite of that, as she was gentle, intelligent, and well-bred, the
Princess plainly preferred her to the other three. In temperament they
suited each other to perfection.
The King frequently came to the Palais Royal, where the bright, pleasant
conversation of his sister-in-law made amends for the inevitable boredom
which one suffered when with the Queen.
Being brought in such close contact with the King, who in private life is
irresistibly attractive, Mademoiselle de la Valliere conceived a violent
passion for him; yet, owing to modesty or natural timidity, it was plain
that she carefully sought to hide her secret. One fine night she and two
young persons of her own age were seated under a large oak-tree in the
grounds of Saint Germain. The Marquis de Wringhen, seeing them in the
moonlight, said to the King, who was walking with him, "Let us turn
aside, Sire, in this direction; yonder there are three solitary nymphs,
who seem waiting for fairies or lovers." Then they noiselessly
approached the tree that I have mentioned, and lost not a word of all the
talk in which the fair ladies were engaged.
They were discussing the last ball at the chateau. One extolled the
charms of the Marquis d'Alincour, son of Villeroi; the second mentioned
another young nobleman; while the third frankly expressed herself in
these terms:
"The Marquis d'Alincour and the Prince de Marcillac are most charming, no
doubt, but, in all conscience, who could be interested in their merits
when once the King appeared in their midst?
"Oh, oh!" cried the two others, laughing, "it's strange to hear you talk
like that; so, one has to be a king in order to merit your attention?"
"His rank as king," replied Mademoiselle de la Valliere, "is not the
astonishing part about him; I should have recognised it even in the
simple dress of a herdsman."
The three chatterers then rose and went back to the chateau. Next day,
the King, wholly occupied with what he had overheard on the previous
evening, sat musing on a sofa at his sister-in-law's, when all at once
the voice of Mademoiselle de la Beaume-le-Blanc smote his ear and brought
trouble to his heart. He saw her, noticed her melancholy look, thought
her lovelier than the loveliest, and at once fell passionately in love.
They soon got to understand one another, yet for a long while merely
communicated by means of notes at fetes, or during the performance of
allegorical ballets and operettas, the airs in which sufficiently
expressed the nature of such missives.
In order to put the Queen-mother off the scent and screen La Valliere,
the King pretended to be in love with Mademoiselle de la
Mothe-Houdancour, one of the Queen's maids of honour. He used to talk
across to her out of one of the top-story windows, and even wished her to
accept a present of diamonds. But Madame de Navailles, who took charge
of the maids of honour, had gratings put over the top-story windows, and
La Mothe-Houdancour was so chagrined by the Queen's icy manner towards
her that she withdrew to a convent. As to the Duchesse de Navailles and
her husband, they got rid of their charges and retired to their estates,
where great wealth and freedom were their recompense after such pompous
Court slavery.
The Queen-mother was still living; unlike her niece, she was not
blindfold. The adventure of Mademoiselle de la Mothe-Houdancour seemed
to her just what it actually was,--a subterfuge; as she surmised, it
could only be La Valliere. Having discovered the name of her confessor,
the Queen herself went in disguise to the Theatin Church, flung herself
into the confessional where this man officiated, and promised him the sum
of thirty thousand francs for their new church if he would help her to
save the King.
The Theatin promised to do what the Queen thus earnestly desired, and
when his fair penitent came to confess, he ordered her at once to break
off her connection with the Court as with the world, and to shut herself
up in a convent.
Mademoiselle de la Valliere shed tears, and sought to make certain
remarks, but the confessor, a man of inflexible character, threatened her
with eternal damnation, and he was obeyed.
Beside herself with grief, La Valliere left by another door, so as to
avoid her servants and her coach. She recollected seeing a little
convent of hospitalieres at Saint Cloud; she went thither on foot, and
was cordially welcomed by these dames.
Next day it was noised abroad in the chateau that she had been carried
off by order of the Queen-mother. During vespers the King seemed greatly
agitated, and no sooner had the preacher ascended the pulpit than he rose
and disappeared.
The confusion of the two Queens was manifest; no one paid any heed to the
preacher; he scarcely knew where he was.
Meanwhile the conquering King had started upon his quest. Followed by a
page and a carriage and pair, he first went to Chaillot, and then to
Saint Cloud, where he rang at the entrance of the modest abode which
harboured his friend. The nun at the turnstile answered him harshly, and
denied him an audience. It is true, he only told her he was a cousin or
a relative.
Seeing that this nun was devoid of sense and of humanity, he bethought
himself of endeavouring to persuade the gardener, who lived close to the
monastery. He slipped several gold pieces into his hand, and most
politely requested him to go and tell the Lady Superior that he had come
thither on behalf of the King.
The Lady Superior came down into the parlour, and recognising the King
from a superb miniature, besought him of his grandeur to interest himself
in this young lady of quality, devoid of means and fatherless, and
consented, moreover, to give her up to him, since as King he so
commanded.
Louise de la Beaume-le-Blanc obeyed the King, or in other words, the
dictates of her own heart, imprudently embarking upon a career of
passion, for which a temperament wholly different from hers was needed.
It is not simple-minded maidens that one wants at Court to share the
confidence of princes. No doubt natures of that sort--simple,
disinterested souls are pleasant and agreeable to them, as therein they
find contentment such as they greedily prize; but for these unsullied,
romantic natures, disillusion, trickery alone is in store. And if
Mademoiselle de la Beaumele-Blanc had listened to me, she might have
turned matters to far better account; nor, after yielding up her youth to
a monarch, would she have been obliged to end, her days in a prison.
The King no longer visited her as his mistress, but trusted and esteemed
her as a friend and as the mother of his two pretty children.
One day, in the month of April, 1674, his Majesty, while in the gardens,
received the following letter, which one of La Valliere's pages proffered
him on bended knee:
SIRE:--To-day I am leaving forever this palace, whither the cruellest of
fatalities summoned my youth and inexperience. Had I not met you, my
heart would have loved seclusion, a laborious life, and my kinsfolk. An
imperious inclination, which I could not conquer, gave me to you, and,
simple, docile as I was by nature, I believed that my passion would
always prove to me delicious, and that your love would never die. In
this world nothing endures. My fond attachment has ceased to have any
charm for you, and my heart is filled with dismay. This trial has come
from God; of this my reason and my faith are convinced. God has felt
compassion for my unspeakable grief. That which for long past I have
suffered is greater than human force can bear; He is going to receive me
into His home of mercy. He promises me both healing and peace.
In this theatre of pomp and perfidy I have only stayed until such a
moment as my daughter and her youthful brother might more easily do
without me. You will cherish them both; of that I have no doubt. Guide
them, I beseech you, for the sake of your own glory and their well-being.
May your watchful care sustain them, while their mother, humbled and
prostrate in a cloister, shall commend them to Him who pardons all.
After my departure, show some kindness to those who were my servants and
faithful domestics, and deign to take back the estates and residences
which served to support me in my frivolous grandeur, and maintain the
celebrity that I deplore.
Adieu, Sire! Think no more about me, lest such a feeling, to which my
imagination might but all too readily lend itself, only beget links of
sympathy in my heart which conscience and repentance would fain destroy.
If God call me to himself, young though yet I am, He will have granted my
prayers; if He ordain me to live for a while longer in this desert of
penitence, it will never compensate for the duration of my error, nor for
the scandal of which I have been the cause.
Your subject from this time forth, LOUISE DE LA VALLIERE.
The King had not been expecting so desperate a resolve as this, nor did
he feel inclined to hinder her from making it. He left the Portuguese
ambassador, who witnessed his agitation, and hastened to Madame de la
Valliere's, who had left her apartments in the castle at daybreak. He
shed tears, being kind of heart and convinced that a body so graceful and
so delicate would never be able to resist the rigours and hardships of so
terrible a life.
The Carmelite nuns of the Rue Saint Jacques loudly proclaimed this
conversion, and in their vanity gladly received into their midst so
modest and distinguished a victim, driven thither through sheer despair.
The ceremony which these dames call "taking the dress" attracted the
entire Court to their church. The Queen herself desired to be present at
so harrowing a spectacle, and by a curious contradiction, of which her
capricious nature is capable, she shed floods of tears. La Valliere
seemed gentler, lovelier, more modest and more seductive than ever. In
the midst of the grief and tears which her courageous sacrifice provoked,
she never uttered a single sigh, nor did she change colour once. Hers
was a nature made for extremes; like Caesar, she said to herself, "Either
Rome or nothing!"
The Abbe de Bossuet, who had been charged to preach the sermon of
investiture, showed a good deal of wit by exhibiting none at all. The
King must have felt indebted to him for such reserve. Into his discourse
he had put mere vague commonplaces, which neither touch nor wound any
one; honeyed anathemas such as these may even pass for compliments.
This prelate has won for himself a great name and great wealth by words.
A proof of his cleverness exists in his having lived in grandeur,
opulence, and worldly happiness, while making people believe that he
condemned such things.