LOUISE DE LA VALLIÈRE.
The young King Louis XIV. was active, vigorous, and graceful. He
excelled in outward accomplishments, in riding, dancing, and fencing;
but intellectually he was both idle and ignorant. His education had
been purposely neglected by Cardinal Mazarin; and he was so fully aware
of it, that he carefully avoided displaying his ignorance by a too
facile or rapid address. Even in youth he was grave and ceremonious;
in later years he became pompous and overbearing. On the other hand,
the refinement of his mother's nature was reproduced in the son of her
love. He was brought up by her side in a circle as elegant and refined
as the Hôtel de Rambouillet in its palmiest days. He never forgot the
lesson he then learnt, that the outward proprieties of life must be
studiously observed, whatever freedoms may be permitted in private. He
desired all his life to be considered pious, just, and moral. He failed
in each, for his passions were strong and his temper was imperious. The
vicissitudes of his early life during the civil wars of the Fronde,
when he was often obliged to fly at a moment's notice from place to
place, gave him, however, a power of assuming calmness and dignity
under all circumstances, which he could never have acquired in less
eventful times.
Above all sovereigns Louis understood the art of reigning, of appearing
to be a great king when he was really but a shallow, vain, irresolute
man, extraordinarily accessible to flattery. Yet that a son of Louis
XIII. should say with truth, "_L'état c'est moi_," and dare to drive
out the national Parliament solemnly assembled in the legislative
chamber, _whip in hand_, is one of the most striking anomalies in
history.
In person Louis resembled his father. He was dark, broad shouldered,
and rather short, with regular features and a prominent nose. But
he had all the fire of his mother's Spanish eyes, and withal the
grandest manners and the most royal presence ever seen. From a boy
he was an ardent admirer of the fair. All his life he continued to
be secretly ruled by female influence. Indeed, his long reign may be
divided into three periods, corresponding with the characteristics of
the three women who successively possessed all the love he could spare
from himself. He was gentle, humane, and domestic with La Vallière;
arrogant, heartless, and warlike with De Montespan; selfish, bigoted,
and cruel, with De Maintenon.
His boyish philandering with the handsome nieces of Cardinal Mazarin
has been already noticed. What subtle plans developed themselves in
the brain of that unscrupulous schemer never can be known; but he
could not have arranged matters better to place one of his nieces on
the throne of France. Nor to his Italian notions would this have been
extraordinary. Mazarin would have argued that a Mancini was as well
born as a Medici, whose arms were a pill, and that Martinozzi was as
ancient a name as Bourbon.
Anne of Austria looked on with displeasure. Mazarin wore an
imperturbable front, a sphinx-look, ready to answer either way, as
circumstances might prompt. By the time that Maria Mancini came from
Rome, Louis's passions were thoroughly roused. The young lion had
tasted blood, and found it pleasant to his palate. Maria was far less
beautiful than her sisters,—indeed, that bitter-tongued chronicler,
Bussy Rabutin, calls her "ugly, fat, and short, with the air of a
_soubrette_"; but she had the temper of an angel, and seemed to the
boyish Louis a soft, plaintive, clinging creature, who appealed to his
pity. In reality she had a force of character ten times greater than
his own, and the courage of a heroine.
In Maria Mancini, Mazarin made his great move in the matrimonial game.
Louis gave signs of a serious attachment. Anne of Austria set a watch
upon him. It was needful. Louis had a temperament of fire, Maria was
born under an Italian sky. Notwithstanding the watch set Louis found
opportunity to promise marriage to Maria. He repeated this promise with
protestations and oaths, but, cautious even in his youth, he did not,
like his grandfather Henry IV., commit it to writing.
Mazarin, informed by his niece of what had passed, opined that the time
to speak had come. He ventured to sound the Queen-mother. He spoke of
the charms of genuine attachment, the happiness of domestic life on
a throne; he hinted at the Queen's own unhappy career, sacrificed as
she had been to a political alliance. He enlarged on the antiquity of
the Latin races, specially those of Rome and Sicily, "all of them," he
said, "once reigning houses, and poverty," he added, "did not make blue
blood red."
The Queen, however subservient to the Cardinal on all other matters,
flared out—"If ever my son condescends to marry your niece," cried
she, "I will disown him. I will place myself, with his brother, Philip
of Orleans, at the head of the nation, and fight against him and you,
Cardinal Mazarin."
The Cardinal had many consolations; he was fain to yield. Maria was
sent to a convent. Poor Maria—to go to Brouage instead of sitting on
a throne! It was very hard. Louis was in despair. When they met to say
adieu, he wept.
"What, Sire!" she exclaimed; "you love me—you weep—and we part?" and
she turned her liquid eyes upon him with a look of passionate entreaty.
Perhaps the tears in the King's eyes blinded him, or he did not hear
her; at all events, he heeded neither her look nor her innuendo, and
she went.
Then those marriage bells sounded from over the frontier of which we
have spoken. The King espoused the Infanta of Spain, and Maria Mancini
became La Principessa Colonna, and lived at Naples.
* * * * *
The Court is at Saint-Germain. Louis XIV. was born there, and until
Versailles and Marly were built, he made it his principal residence.
In one of the principal saloons, on the first floor, lying midway
between the turreted angles of the façade, looking over the plains
towards Paris, Louis XIII. had ended his miserable existence, his
private band playing a "De Profundis," of his own composition, during
his death throes. His morbid nature—reproduced in his descendant Louis
XV., who said he loved "the scent of newly made graves"—made him await
the approach of death with a sort of grim curiosity. As he lay on his
bed, opposite the windows, his dim eyes resting on the wide expanse
outstretched below, he called Laporte to him. He was so near his end
that he articulated with difficulty. "Remember, my good Laporte," he
gasped, "that place, below there, where the road turns under that
rise,"—and he raised his shrunken finger, and pointed to a particular
spot, on the road to Saint-Denis, along which his funeral procession
must pass to reach the tombs of his ancestors—"that place there. It has
been newly gravelled, Laporte. It is rough, and will shake me. Let the
driver go gently over the loose stones. Be sure to tell him I said so."
This was not like his son, Louis XIV., who came to detest Saint-Germain
because this very Cathedral of Saint-Denis, where he must be buried,
was visible on the horizon line. Such an object did not suit a monarch
who desired to be thought immortal.
The Court is at Saint-Germain. It is a cool, delicious evening, after
a day of unusual heat. The summer evenings are always charming at
Saint-Germain, by reason of the bowery freshness of the adjacent
forest, from which cool breezes come rippling through the air, and
fan the heated atmosphere. The sombre château is now a mass of deep
shadow, save where the setting sun lights up some detail of its
outline—an arched window, a rich cornice, a pillared portico, or a
pointed tower, which stand out against the western sky with fugitive
brightness. The parterre blazes with summer flowers, the perfume of
which creeps upwards in the rising dews of evening. The formal gravel
walks are bordered by statues and orange-trees; the splashing of many
fountains stirs the air. A flock of peacocks strut on the greensward,
their long tails catching the last rays of the sunset. The summer birds
make delicate music among the shrubberies; and the giant elms, in the
outer park, divided from the garden by an open iron railing, bow their
rounded heads to the breeze.
When the sun has set, a merry party, consisting of four of the maids
of honour, leave the château by a side door. They run swiftly along
the terrace,—frightening the peacocks, who drop their tails and fly
screeching into the trees,—and ensconce themselves in a trellised
arbour, garlanded with honeysuckles and roses, hid in a thicket of
flowering shrubs skirting one side of the parterre. Once there, their
tongues are let loose like so many cherry-clappers.
It was so nearly dark that the maids of honour did not notice the King
as they scudded along the garden, who, attended by the mischief-loving
Comte de Lauzun, had also stolen out to enjoy the evening. Louis
watched them as they ran, and then, hearing their voices in such eager
talk, was seized with an intense desire to know who they were, and
what they were saying. He dare not speak, for they would hear him, and
perhaps recognise his voice. Signing to his confidant Lauzun to follow
him, he softly approached the arbour in which the four girls are hid.
He finds that they are all talking about a fancy ball given the night
before by Madame Henriette, Duchesse d'Orléans, his brother's wife; and
particularly about a ballet in which he himself had danced. The King
and Lauzun, favoured by the increasing darkness of the night, and well
entrenched behind the shrubs, lose not a syllable.
The question is, which dancer was the handsomest and the most graceful?
Each pretty lady has, of course, her own predilection. One declares for
the Marquis d'Alençon, another will not hear of any comparison with M.
de Vardes, a third stoutly maintains that the Comte de Guiche was by
far the handsomest man there and everywhere else (an opinion which,
_par parenthèse_, Madame herself takes every opportunity of showing
she endorses, displaying, moreover, this opinion somewhat too openly,
notwithstanding her designs on the heart of the King himself, whom she
fancies, and others declare, is, or has been, her admirer). The fourth
damsel is silent. Called upon to give her opinion, she speaks. In the
sweetest and gentlest of voices she thus expresses herself:—
"I cannot imagine how any one could have been even noticed when the
King was present. He is quite fascinating."
"Ah, then, mademoiselle, you declare for the King. What will Madame say
to you?"
"No, it is not the King nor the crown he wears that I declare for; it
is not his rank that makes him so charming: on the contrary, to me it
is rather a defect. If he were not the King I should positively dread
him. His position is my best safeguard. However——" And La Vallière
drops her head on her bosom and falls into a deep reverie.
On hearing these words the King is strangely affected, he whispers to
Lauzun not to mention their adventure; they retire silently as they
came, and re-enter the château. The King is in a dilemma. If he could
only discover who this fair damsel is who prefers him to all others
with such naïveté—who admires him for himself alone, and not for his
rank—a preference as flattering as it is rarely the lot of a monarch to
discover! All he knows is that it must be one of the maids of honour
attached to the service of Madame Henriette, his sister-in-law, and he
cannot sleep all night, he is so haunted with the melting tones of her
voice, and so anxious to discover to whom it belongs.
In the morning, as soon as etiquette allowed of his appearing, Louis
hurries off to the toilette of Madame, whom he finds seated before a
mirror of the rarest Dresden china, looped up with lace and ribbons,
her face and shoulders covered with her long brown hair.
"Your Majesty honours me with an early visit," says she, colouring
with pleasure as he enters. "What plans have you arranged for the hunt
to-day? When are we to start?"
Louis, with his usual politeness—shown, be it recorded to his credit,
towards any woman, whatever might be her degree—gallantly replies
that it is for her to command and for him to obey. But there the
conversation drops, and the Duchess observes that he is absent and
preoccupied. This both chagrines and disappoints her. Piqued at
his want of _empressement_, she turns from him abruptly and begins
conversing with the Comte de Guiche, who with ill-disguised uneasiness
had stood aloof watching her warm reception of his Majesty.
Henriette, the royal daughter of the Stuarts and the Bourbons, without
being positively handsome, has the air of a great princess. The
freshness of her complexion is, however, all that is English about
her. Her forehead, high and broad, but too much developed for beauty,
gives a certain grandeur to her expression; her eyes are sparkling, but
placed too near together. Still her face is intelligent and lively. She
is tall, slim, and very graceful. Around her long neck, on which her
small head is admirably set, is bound a single string of fine orient
pearls, and a mantle and train of turquoise _faille_ fall back from a
flounced petticoat of yellow satin.
While Madame Henriette talks with the Comte de Guiche, Louis is at
liberty to use his eyes as he chooses, and he hastily surveys the group
of lovely girls that stand behind the Princess's chair. One placed a
little apart from the rest rivets his attention. Her pale and somewhat
melancholy countenance imparts an indescribable air of languor to
her appearance, and the graceful _tournure_ of her head and neck are
admirable.
"Can this be she?" he asks himself. He hopes—he fears (he was young
then, Louis, and not the _blasé débauché_ he afterwards became)—he
actually trembles with emotion, suspense, and impatience. But
determined to ascertain the truth, and regardless of the furious
glances cast at him by Madame,—who evidently neither likes nor
understands his wandering looks, directed evidently to her ladies, and
his total want of _empressement_ towards herself,—he approaches the
fair group and begins conversing with them, certain that if that same
soft voice is heard that had never ceased to echo in his ears, he shall
at once recognise it. He speaks to Mademoiselle de Saint-Aignan, but
his eyes are fixed on the pale face of La Vallière, for she it was whom
he so much admired. La Vallière casts down her eyes and blushes.
The King advances towards her and addresses her. He awaits her reply
with indescribable anxiety. She trembles, grows still more pale,
then blushes crimson, and finally answers in a voice tremulous with
timidity; but it was _the_ voice! He has found her. This, then, is the
unknown, and she loves him; her own lips confessed it. Delightful! He
leaves the apartments of Madame abruptly in speechless ecstasy.
From that day he sees, he lives only for La Vallière. Ever in the
apartments of his sister-in-law, it was evident even to her that he did
not come to seek her, and her rage knew no bounds. She had hitherto
had ample reason to believe that the attachment the King felt for her
somewhat exceeded that of a brother. With the spiteful penetration of
a jealous woman, she now discovers how often the eyes of Louis are
fixed with admiration on the timid, downcast La Vallière. She is not,
therefore, long in guessing the object of his preference, and the cause
of his frequent visits to her apartments. From this moment she hates
poor Louise, and determines, if possible, to ruin her.
The King on his part, unconscious of the storm he was raising about La
Vallière, is enchanted not only with herself, but with all he hears of
her character. She is beloved by every one; her goodness, sweetness,
and sincerity are universally acknowledged, and the account of her
various good qualities tend to enhance her merit.
When the Court returns to Saint-Germain (now, can one fancy romance
within those dingy walls?—but so it was), Louis is desperately, head
and ears over, in love. A party of pleasure is arranged to take place
in the forest under a tent formed of boughs, tapestry, and flowers.
The ladies invited to this sylvan retreat are habited as shepherdesses
and peasants. They form charming groups, like Sèvres china. On their
arrival the most delicious music is heard from the recesses of the
leafy woods, which as it plays at intervals, now here, now there, among
the trees, is the signal for the appearance of various groups of
satyrs, fauns, and dryads, who after dancing grotesque figure-dances,
and singing verses in honour of the King, disappear, to be quickly
replaced by another _troupe_. These present flowers, and also sing and
dance as no dryads or fauns had ever dreamed of in classic bowers, but
in a style quite peculiar to the age and taste of _le Grand Monarque_,
who liked even nature itself to appear as artificial and formal as he
was himself. This agreeable fête has lasted all day, and the company
is about to return, when, conceive the alarm—a violent storm comes
on, thunder rolls, the sky is suddenly overcast, and a heavy rain,
enough to drench the whole Court to the skin, descends with remorseless
violence. How every one scuds hither and thither! The thickest trees
are eagerly seized on as a slight protection against the storm.
Others hide themselves in the bushes, some penetrate deeper into the
cover of the copse wood. Spite of the rain, and the destruction of
the dresses, the ladies come to vote it rather an agreeable incident
on the whole, when they find their favourite cavaliers beside them,
placed, perchance, somewhat nearer than would have been _comme il faut_
in the Court circle. For although the ladies might really at first
have been a little terrified, the gentlemen are certainly not likely
to be troubled with any nervousness on account of a thunderstorm,
and preserve sufficient _sang-froid_ each to select his lady-love in
order to protect her from the weather. Thus it chanced that Madame
Henriette finds herself under the care of the Comte de Guiche; the fair
Mancini, once beloved by the King, now Comtesse de Soissons, is under
the protection of her dear De Vardes; and Mademoiselle d'Orléans—_la
Grande Mademoiselle_—is completely happy, and forgets the thunder,
rain, and, more wonderful still, her own dignity, at finding herself
escorted by Lauzun!
The King, nowise behind his courtiers in gallantry, at once offers
his escort and his arm to support La Vallière, who, naturally timid,
is really frightened, and clings to him with a helplessness that
enchants him. All the world knows she is a little lame, a defect which
was said in her to be almost a grace. Now she does not perhaps regret
that this infirmity prevents her running as quickly as the rest, and
thus prolonging the precious moments passed alone with the King. Louis
places her under a tree, where they are both protected from the rain
and are shrouded by the thick boughs which hang low and fringe the
grass.
The King seizes on this happy opportunity to declare his passion, and
to whisper to La Vallière the love she has inspired ever since that
evening, when he had overheard her. Poor Louise! She had never dared
to imagine that her love was returned, and she well-nigh faints as the
King proceeds. Her heart beats so violently it is almost audible. She
is actually on the point of rushing from under the tree, when the King
lays hold of her hand, and retains her.
"What!" cries he, "do you fear me more than the storm? What have I done
to frighten you? you whom I love, whom I adore! Why do you hate me?
Speak, I implore you, Louise."
"Oh, Sire! do not say hate. I revere you—I love you—as my King, but——"
"Sweet girl, I breathe again. But why only love me as your Sovereign—I,
who cherish your every look, who seek only to be your servant—your
slave?"
Saying this, Louis falls on his knees upon the grass; he seizes her
hands, which he covers with kisses; he swears he will never rise until
she has promised to love him, and to pardon the terror his declaration
has caused her.
Mademoiselle de la Vallière cannot control her emotion. She implores
him to rise.
"You are my King," she says, "the husband of the Queen. My royal
master, I am your faithful subject. Can I say more?"
"Yes, dearest, promise me your love. Give me your heart; that is the
possession I desire," murmurs Louis.
Pressed by the King to grant him some mark of her favour, La Vallière
becomes so confused she cannot reply. Louis grows more and more
pressing, interpreting her emotion as favourable to his suit. In the
midst of the tenderest entreaties the thunder again bursts forth, and
poor Louise, overcome at once by fear, love, and remorse, swoons away.
The King naturally receives the precious burden in his arms. He seeks
hastily to rejoin the other fugitives and his attendants, in order
to obtain assistance. Ever and anon he stops in the openings of the
forest to gaze at her, as she lies calm and lovely in repose, her long
eye-lashes sweeping her delicate cheeks, her half-closed lips revealing
the prettiest and whitest teeth. I leave my readers to imagine if
Louis did not imprint a few kisses on the fainting beauty he bears so
carefully in his arms, and if now and then he did not press her closer
to his breast. If in this he _did_ take advantage of the situation
chance had afforded him, he must be forgiven; he was young, and he was
deeply in love.
Words cannot describe the surprise felt by La Vallière on recovering
to find herself alone, borne along in the King's arms, in the midst of
a lonely forest. History does not, however, record that she died of
terror, or that she even screamed. The respectful behaviour of the King
doubtless reassured her.
The moment she opens her sweet blue eyes he stops, places her on the
ground, and supports her. He assures her that being then near the
edge of the forest, and not far distant from the château, they are
sure to meet some of his attendants. Louise blushes, then grows pale,
then blushes again, as the recollection of all the King had said to
her while under the shade of the greenwood gradually returns to her
remembrance. She reads the confirmation of it in his eyes. Those eyes
are fixed on her with passionate ardour. Disengaging herself from his
arms, she thanks him, in a faltering voice, for his care a thousand
times—for his condescension. She is so sorry. It was so foolish to
faint; but the thunder—his Majesty's goodness to her—— Here she pauses
abruptly; her conscience tells her she ought at once to reject his
suit; her lips cannot form the words.
While she is speaking, a group of horsemen are visible in the distance,
at the end of one of those long woodland glades which divide the
forest. On hearing the voice of the King, who calls to them, they
gallop rapidly towards him. The King and La Vallière reach the château
shortly after the other ladies, none of whom, as it appeared, had been
in haste to return.
From this moment La Vallière's fate is sealed. Long she had loved and
admired the King in secret; but until she learnt how warmly he returned
this feeling she was scarcely aware how completely he had enthralled
her. The ecstasy this certainty gave her first fully revealed to her
the real danger of her situation. Poor Louise! Is it wonderful that,
as the scene of this first and passionate declaration, she should
love the old Château of Saint-Germain more than any other spot in the
world?—that when suffering, the air restored her? when unhappy (and
she lived to be so unhappy), the sight of the forest, of the terrace,
revived her by tender reminiscences of the past?
When the secret of Louis's attachment to La Vallière transpired (which,
after the scene in the forest was very speedily), nothing could exceed
the indignation of the whole circle, who each conceived that they had
some especial cause of complaint.
Louis's old love, the Comtesse de Soissons (Mancini), with the thirst
for practical revenge bred in her hot Italian blood, held council with
De Vardes and De Guiche, how to crush her, whom she styled "the common
enemy." A letter was planned and written by the Countess in Spanish,
addressed to the Queen, purporting to come from the King of Spain. This
letter detailed every particular of her husband's _liaison_ with La
Vallière. The bad spelling and foreign idioms, however, betrayed it to
be a forgery.
The letter was placed on the Queen's bed by the Comtesse de Soissons
herself. Instead of falling into the Queen's hands, as was intended,
it was found by De Molena, Maria Theresa's Spanish nurse. She carried
it straight to the King. He traced it to Madame de Soissons. She was
banished.
Madame Henriette d'Orléans was more noisy and abusive than any one.
Her vanity was hurt. Her feelings were outraged at the notion that the
King, heretofore her admirer, should forsake her openly for one of her
own women! It was too insulting.
"What!" cried she in her rage, "prefer an ugly, limping _fillette_ to
_me_, the daughter of a king? I am as superior in beauty to that little
minx as I am in birth! _Dieu! qu'il manque de goût et de délicatesse!_"
Without even taking leave of Louis she shut herself up at Saint-Cloud,
where she made the very walls ring with her complaints.
The poor, quiet little Queen, the only really injured person, wept
and mourned in private. She was far too much afraid of that living
Jupiter Tonans, her husband, to venture on any personal reproaches. She
consoled herself by soundly abusing La Vallière in epithets much more
expressive than polite.
In this abuse she was joined by Anne of Austria, who, in her present
austere frame of mind, was the last person in France to spare La
Vallière.
An explanation was decidedly needful.