A NOBLE RESOLVE.
The Court had removed from the Louvre to Saint-Germain, always the
favourite abode of the melancholy monarch.
Louis suffered tortures from the galling restraints his position
entailed upon him in his intercourse with Mademoiselle de Lafayette.
He rarely saw her alone. When he addressed her, he was conscious that
every eye was fixed upon them. Their correspondence, carried on by
means of Chavigny, was, he felt, full of danger. His only comforter
in his manifold troubles was this same treacherous Chavigny. Prompted
by the Cardinal, Chavigny urged the King, on every possible occasion,
to make some arrangement with Mademoiselle de Lafayette to meet in
private. "If she loves you," said this unworthy tool, "if you really
possess her heart, she will long to meet your Majesty with greater
freedom as much as you can do. It is for you to make some such proposal
to her. Do it, Sire; do it without delay, or I assure you the lady
will think you careless and indifferent." Thus spoke Chavigny. Louis
listened, meditated on what he said, and was convinced. He gave himself
up to the most entrancing day-dreams.
The season was summer. The weather was hot, and the tall windows of
the great saloon were thrown open. The Court had gathered round the
Queen, who was engaged in a lively conversation with Mademoiselle de
Montpensier, the young daughter of the Duc d'Orléans. Seeing that her
services were not required, Louise de Lafayette, pensive and silent,
stole away to the balcony outside the windows. She stood alone, lost in
her own thoughts. With noiseless steps Louis approached her. He lent
by her side over the balustrade, bending his eyes on the broad plains
towards Paris.
"You are thoughtful, Sire," said Louise timidly. "Will you tell me your
thoughts?"
"If I do," replied Louis, casting a fond glance upon her, "will you
trust me with yours?"
A delicious tremor passed through her whole frame. She cast down her
large grey eyes, and smiled. "Indeed I trust you, Sire," she murmured
softly; "you know I do."
"But trust me more,—let our communion be more intimate. A brother's
love is not more pure than mine," whispered the King; "but," and
he hesitated and blushed, "I have never enjoyed the privilege of a
brother." Louise raised her eyes inquiringly.
The King was greatly confused. "A brother—" and he stopped. Then,
seeing her earnest look of curiosity—"A brother," he repeated, "salutes
his sister: I have never enjoyed that privilege, Louise." He was
scarcely audible. "Let my self-denial, at least, secure me all your
confidence."
"Oh, Sire, you have it, entire and unreserved; you know it. I might
distrust myself, but you, Sire, never, never!"
"How happy you make me!" returned the King, and a sickly smile
overspread his haggard face. "I understand—I appreciate your attachment
to me; but oh, mademoiselle, how can my feeble words express mine to
you?—how can I describe that which is without bounds—without limit? You
can live without me. You can find solace in your own perfection, in
the admiration of those around you—but I, I am nothing without you. I
am a mere blank—a blot upon a luxurious Court—an offence to my superb
wife. No one cares for my happiness—not even for my existence, but
you. When I cannot approach you, I am overcome by despair. Oh, Louise,
give yourself up to me, in pity—without fear, without restraint. Let
me see you every day,—let me be encouraged by your words, led by your
counsels, soothed by your pity, blessed by your sight. You say you do
not doubt me. What then do you fear?"
The maid of honour looked at him with tearful eyes. His earnestness,
his desolation, his entreaties, melted her heart. His unconscious love
made her pulses beat as quickly as his own.
"You know that I am devoted to you,—what more can I say?" she whispered
softly.
"I have a favour to ask you," said Louis anxiously,—"a favour so great
I hesitate to name it." He was greatly agitated. At this moment the
passionate love he felt animated him with new life, and lent a charm to
his countenance it had never borne before.
"A favour, Sire?—it is granted before you speak. How is it that you
have concealed it from me?"
"Then I am satisfied,"—the King heaved a sigh of relief,—"what I ask
depends entirely on you. You will grant it."
"Am I to promise?"
"Well, only give me your word; that is enough."
"Sire, I give you my word; from the bottom of my heart, I give you my
word. Tell me what it is you desire." And she raised her face towards
the King, who contemplated her with silent rapture.
"Not now,—not now," murmured he, in a faltering voice; "I dare not;
it would require too long an explanation,—we might be interrupted,"
and he turned and glanced at the scene behind him,—at Anne of Austria,
blazing with diamonds, radiant with regal beauty, her silvery laugh
surmounting the hum of conversation. He saw the brilliant crowd
that thronged around her where she sat. Great princes, illustrious
ministers, historic nobles, chivalric soldiers, grave diplomatists,
stately matrons, ministers of state, her ladies in waiting, and the
five other maids of honour, in the glory of golden youth. He saw the
dazzling lights, the fluttering feathers, the gorgeous robes, the
sparkling jewels, standing out from the painted walls,—all the glamour
of a luxurious Court. Then he gazed at the sweet face of the lonely
girl whose loving eyes were bent upon him awaiting his reply,—his soul
sank within him.
"Would to God I were not King of France," he exclaimed abruptly,
following the tenor of his thoughts. Then, seeing her wonder at his
sudden outburst, he added, "The favour I ask of you shall be made known
to you in writing. This evening you shall receive a letter from me;
but,"—and he drew closer to her and spoke almost fiercely,—"remember
you have pledged yourself to me—you cannot, you dare not withdraw your
word. If you do,"—and an agonised look came into his face,—"you will
drive me to madness." Saying these words, he suddenly disappeared. She
was again left standing alone on the balcony.
Louise de Lafayette was startled, but not alarmed. The notion that the
King was capable of making any indecorous proposition to her never
for a moment occurred to her; at the same time she felt the utmost
curiosity to know what this secret might be. She formed a thousand
different conjectures, each further than the other from the truth.
On entering her room at night, she found a letter from the King. She
hastily tore it open and read as follows:—
"I have long adored you, and you only. During the whole time you
have been at Court, I have been able but twice to address you
alone, and to chance only did I even then owe that inexpressible
privilege. It is impossible for me to endure this restraint any
longer. If you feel as I do, you will not desire it. I have
therefore commanded that my hunting-lodge at Versailles should be
arranged as much as possible in accordance with your taste. There
is a garden laid out, filled with the flowers you love; there are
secluded lawns; there is the boundless forest. Above all, there
is freedom. Come then, my Louise, and share with me this rural
retreat—come where we can meet, unrestrained by the formalities
of my Court. Bring with you any friend you please. At Versailles
I hope to spend part of every week in your company. My happiness
will be perfect; you will find me the most grateful of men. You
will have nothing to fear. Do you dream calumny? Who would dare to
attack a lady as pure as yourself? May I not claim your consent
when I rely on your promise to grant whatever I ask? I feel that
you cannot deny me, for you have repeated a thousand times that
you trust my principles. You cannot doubt my honour. To refuse me
would only be to insult me. Surely Louise, you would not do that!
It would wound me to the very soul. It would destroy every hope of
my future life.
"(Signed) LOUIS."
When Mademoiselle de Lafayette read this artful letter, which had been
composed by Chavigny under the direction of Richelieu, and copied out
by the King, she was utterly confounded. The fatal veil which had so
long concealed the truth fell from her eyes. Even to a girl pure and
simple as herself, all further delusion was impossible. This letter and
the feelings that dictated it were not to be misunderstood.
"Merciful heavens!" cried she, clasping her hands, "with what a tone
of authority, with what assurance, he proposes to dishonour me! This,
then, is the attachment I believed to be so pure! What! does he, the
husband of the Queen of France, suppose that I would encourage a guilty
passion! Wretch that I am! Instead of helping him, I have led him into
sin! I had no right to engross his thoughts. He is already estranged
from his wife, and I have severed them still further! O God! what will
the Queen think of me? How can I atone for this horrible sin? I must—I
will—reconcile them. Then God may forgive my involuntary crime!"
Again and again, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she read and
re-read the letter. She pressed the paper to her lips. The next moment
she dashed it on the floor in an agony of remorse.
"Oh, how can I reply?" sobbed she. "What can I say to temper the
blow which must sever us? He will be in despair—he will die. But my
reputation, my honour—his own—his duty to the Queen! No, I will never
consent to such degradation—my soul revolts at the thought! How gladly
would I sacrifice my life for him, but I cannot commit a sin. I must
leave the palace, I must go—Whither?"
[Illustration: MLLE. DE LAFAYETTE.
FROM MONMERQUÉ'S "TALLEMANT DES RÉAUX."]
As she listened to the echo of her own words, an unformed thought
suddenly darted into her mind. Go—yes, she would go where none could
follow. Youth, beauty, wealth, the sacrifice should be complete. She
would prove, even in separation, how great had been her love. "_There
is no other way_," she said, speaking aloud, and an angelic smile lit
up her face. She cast herself upon her knees, and prayed in peace.
Her prayer finished, she took up her pen and replied thus to the King:—
"Your Majesty desires that we should no longer meet in the
presence of witnesses. Before knowing what was required of me, I
promised to comply. I will not withdraw my word; but I entreat
of your Majesty the liberty of myself selecting the place where
these private interviews are to be held. When I have received
your Majesty's assent, I will inform you where this place is to
be. In eight days' time I shall be prepared to receive you. Your
Majesty can then judge of the extent of my confidence, and of the
unbounded devotion I feel towards you.
"LOUISE DE LAFAYETTE."