THE SACRIFICE.
Next morning, as soon as it was light, Louise sent for the King's
confessor. She showed him the King's letter, and confided to him her
resolution. Caussin listened in silence; but the kindly old man,
priest though he was, could not restrain his tears—so touching was her
innocence, so heartfelt her sorrow. He understood the simple goodness
of her heart; he trembled at the sacrifice she was imposing on herself;
but he could not combat her arguments. He promised, therefore, to
assist in making the needful arrangements, and he pledged himself to
support the King in the trial awaiting him.
The coach was in waiting which was to bear her to her future home. All
at once she recollected she had still one final sacrifice to make. The
letters of the King, which she always carried about her, were still
intact within the silken cover in which she preserved them. She drew
these letters from her bosom and gazed on them in silent agony. Her
eyes were blinded by tears. She dared not read them again, for she
knew they would but increase her grief. As she held them in her hand,
remorse at what she had done preponderated over every feeling. Thus to
have enthralled a husband belonging to another—her sovereign and her
mistress—came suddenly before her in its true light. She felt she had
forgotten her duty. Once more she kissed the crumpled leaves over which
her fingers had so often passed; she deluged them with her tears. Then
she lit a taper and set fire to the whole.
She sat immovable before the burning fragments; her eyes fixed, her
hands clasped. As the flame rose, glistened, and then melted away into
light particles of dust that the morning air, blowing in from the open
window, bore away fluttering in the breeze, she seemed to look upon
the death of her love. "Alas!" cried she, "now all is over." Vows
of eternal constancy, entreaties that would melt a heart of stone,
confidence beyond all limit, affection that enshrouded her in folds of
unutterable tenderness—gone,—vanished into air! Such was the image of
her life: a life bright in promise, gay and dazzling, to smoulder down
into ashes, too fragile even to claim a resting-place.
Louise de Lafayette wrote a few lines to the Duchesse de Sennécy,
praying her to convey her dutiful salutations to her Majesty, and to
request her dismissal from the post of maid of honour, which, she said,
"she felt she had fulfilled so ill." Then she addressed the following
note to the King:—"I request your Majesty to meet me this day week, at
noon, in the parlour of the Convent of the Daughters of Mary, in the
Faubourg Saint-Antoine."
When the King read these lines his heart sank within him. The austerity
of the place, a rendezvous in a convent of peculiar sanctity, where he
knew Mademoiselle de Lafayette always resorted at the solemn season of
Lent and Passion Week, where he could only converse with her between
double bars, was not the place of meeting of which he had fondly
dreamed! Yet his natural delicacy made him fully appreciate the modesty
of Louise and the gentle rebuke she administered to him for his too
pressing solicitation in naming a place of meeting. At the convent,
although they would certainly be alone, no scandal could possibly
attach to the interview. More than this he never for an instant
imagined. The habits of piety in which Mademoiselle de Lafayette
lived, and her frequent retreats for religious purposes, raised in his
mind no suspicion. He should see her, and see her alone, undisturbed,
unwatched. On that thought he dwelt with rapture; time would, he hoped,
do the rest.
Punctually, at noon, the King arrived at the Convent of the Daughters
of Mary. He was received by the Abbess in person, and conducted into
the parlour. Here she left him. A moment more, a curtain was withdrawn,
and, behind double bars of iron, Louise de Lafayette stood before him.
She wore the dark brown robes and corded girdle of the order, the long
white veil of the noviciate falling round her lovely face. The King
stood transfixed, his eyes riveted upon her.
"Forgive me, Sire," said she, in a voice full of sweetness, "forgive me
for having dared to dispose of myself without your leave. But, Sire,
a too fervent attachment had led us both into danger. I had forgotten
my duty in the love I felt for you,—your Majesty forgot you were a
husband. That letter, in which you proposed meeting me at Versailles,
opened my eyes to the truth. God be thanked, there was yet time for
repentance. This morning I have taken the white veil, and in a year I
shall pronounce the final vows. My life will still be passed with you,
Sire; but it will be a life of prayer." As she spoke she smiled sadly,
and awaited his reply.
"Great God!" exclaimed Louis at length, when he could find words. "Is
this a vision? Are you an angel already glorified?" He sank upon his
knees before her.
"Rise, Sire," said she solemnly; "such a posture befits neither the
dignity of your station nor the sacredness of mine. I am no angel, but
still your tender friend; a friend who watches over you, who only lives
to remind you of your duties. You will share my heart with the holy
virgins among whom I live, the saints in heaven, and my God. Let not
even the tomb divide us—live, Sire, such a life that we may be reunited
among the spirits of the just."
"Oh, Louise!" exclaimed Louis, in a voice choked with emotion; "Louise,
who alone fills my despairing, my solitary heart! at your feet I
abjure all profane, all unholy thoughts. Speak—command me! my spirit
follows you. But, alas!" and he rose to his feet and wrung his hands
in bitterest anguish, "what is to become of me in the midst of my
detestable Court? Suffer me to follow your example; let me too, within
the walls of a cloister, seek that resignation and courage which make
you so sublime."
"Good heavens, Sire!" exclaimed Louise de Lafayette, "what do I
hear? You, a sovereign, a husband, bury yourself in a cloister! Our
situations are utterly unlike. I, a solitary girl, have but withdrawn
from a world to which you were my only tie. Your glory, the glory
of France, your own welfare, and the welfare of the Queen, are to
you sacred duties. And now, Sire, listen to me," and she approached
close to the bars which divided them, and a look of the old melting
tenderness passed for a moment over her beautiful face, "Sire, if ever
I have been dear to you, listen. The sin for which I feel most poignant
sorrow—the sin which years, nay, a life of expiation cannot wipe
out—is—that I have by my selfish, my miserable attachment, alienated
you from the Queen." Louis was about to interrupt her, but she signed
to him to be silent. "I know, Sire, what you would say," she broke in
hastily,—"that our attachment has in no way altered your relations
towards her Majesty. True, it is so; but my influence over you ought
to have been devoted to unite you. It ought to have been my privilege
to render both your Majesties happy as man and wife, to give heirs to
France, to strengthen the Government. Alas, alas! I have sinned almost
beyond forgiveness!" and for awhile she broke into passionate sobs,
which all her self-command could not restrain. "Her Majesty, Sire, is
a most noble lady, beautiful, generous, loyal, courageous. For twenty
years she, the greatest queen in Europe, has been neglected, almost
scorned by you her husband. Under these trials her lofty spirit has
not flinched—she has been true to you and to herself. Temptation,
provocation, nay, insults have not shaken her virtue. Believe nothing
against her, Sire—her soul is as lovely as her body. Sire, the Queen
is childless, devote your whole life to her and to France; tend her,
protect her, love her. Then, and then only, shall I be reconciled to
God." As she spoke her sweet grey eyes turned towards heaven, her
countenance was transfigured as in an ecstasy; no saint standing within
a sculptured shrine could be more pure, more holy.
The King gazed at her awestruck. "Dispose of me as you will," murmured
he; "command my life—but, remember that now I have lost you, happiness
is gone from me for ever!"
"Adieu, Sire," said Mademoiselle de Lafayette. "The hour-glass warns me
that our interview is over. Return in six months and tell that I have
been obeyed."
She drew the dark curtain across the bars, and the Abbess entered.
Louis returned hastily to Saint-Germain.