THE CONVENT OF CHAILLOT.
Mademoiselle de la Vallière is summoned to the presence of the
Queen-mother. She is sitting in the Grey Chamber, next to her oratory.
Louise is aware that Anne of Austria never gives audiences in the Grey
Chamber except on the most serious occasions. The Queen-mother wears a
dark dress, in cut and shape like the robe of a nun; her grey hair is
gathered into a head-dress of white lace, and she carries a rosary at
her side. She looks old and sad; her stately form is bent, her face is
thin, her features are drawn, and wrinkles obscure her once brilliant
eyes.
The Duchesse d'Orléans is seated by her side. Louise enters. She dares
not advance beyond the door. Standing there she makes deep obeisances
to the Queen-mother and to Madame Henriette. She blushes scarlet, then
turns pale. Her head drops on her bosom; as she stands before them she
feels more dead than alive.
"I see you are there, Mademoiselle de la Vallière," says the Queen,
frowning. "I wish to speak to you in the presence of your late
mistress, Madame Henriette de France, my daughter-in-law. You are aware
why we have sent for you?"
"No, Madame," answers the maid of honour, faintly, "but I humbly await
your orders."
"What affected humility!" exclaims Madame Henriette with a sneer. "You
act uncommonly well, _petite_."
"All the better if she be humble, my daughter," rejoins the
Queen-mother, speaking of La Vallière as if she were not present—"all
the better. It is some step towards repentance that she is conscious of
her crime. It will save us the trouble of insisting on it. Pray to God,
mademoiselle, to pardon you; you have no hope but in heaven." And she
casts a stern glance at her.
The tears gather in La Vallière's soft blue eyes. They course each
other down her pallid cheeks, and fall, spotting her pale blue dress.
Her head, covered with a profusion of short fair curls, is still bent
down. She looks like a delicate flower bowed before a cruel tempest.
"What are you going to do with those fine diamond bracelets the King
presented to you the other day out of the Queen's lottery?" asks Madame
Henriette tauntingly, interrupting the Queen.
Anne of Austria makes a sign to her to be silent. Poor Louise for an
instant turns her eyes imploringly upon her. Madame grows pale with
spite as she remembers those superb diamond bracelets that the King
drew as a prize from the lottery,—which she had fully expected he would
present to herself,—were given by him to La Vallière. She is so wroth
she cannot leave Louise alone; again she attacks her. "Your vanity is
insufferable, mademoiselle. Do you imagine, _petite sotte_, that any
one cares for _you_? Mademoiselle de Pons is the belle of the Court.
His Majesty says so."
At this malicious stab Louise shudders.
"My daughter," interposes the Queen-mother, "do not agitate yourself.
I understand your annoyance at having introduced such a person as
Mademoiselle de la Vallière at Court. Let _me_ address her. She is
unworthy of your notice. You understand, of course, mademoiselle,
that you are dismissed," she says, turning towards her and speaking
imperiously.
"But, your Majesty—" and La Vallière's streaming eyes are again lifted
upwards for an instant—"what, oh, what have I done?"
"Ask yourself, mademoiselle. Unless there are to be two queens of
France, you must go. You cannot wish me, the mother of his Majesty, to
enter into details on a subject so painful to my feelings."
"No, I should think not," breaks in Madame Henriette, "unless you have
no sense of decency. A little unworthy chit like you to dare to trouble
royal princesses; you are as impertinent as you are disreputable."
[Illustration: MADEMOISELLE DE LA VALLIÈRE.
FROM A STEEL ENGRAVING.]
At these cruel words La Vallière staggers backwards, and almost falls.
Then she again turns her swollen eyes towards the royal ladies with
absolute terror.
Ah, heaven! she thinks, if the King did but know her agony, her
sufferings! Ah, if he were but here to speak for her! But not a word
passes her lips.
Madame Henriette's eyes fix themselves on her with a look of triumph.
She becomes absolutely radiant at the sight of the humiliation of her
whom she calls "her rival."
"You know our pleasure, mademoiselle," says Anne of Austria, rising
from her arm-chair. "You will return from whence you came—Touraine, I
believe. You will be conducted by Madame de Choisy; but, indeed, you
need no escort; you have nothing to fear _now_," and the Queen-mother
casts a look of withering contempt on the wretched girl, more offensive
even than her bitter words.
Louise shrinks backwards. She would fain escape.
"Do not forget, mademoiselle, before you go, to thank Madame Henriette
de France for all her goodness to you," says the Queen, arresting her
with a motion—"goodness, indeed, you have so ill requited."
"No, no!" cries Madame; "I want no thanks. I only want to be rid of
her. Let her go, my mother; I ask no more."
The two Princesses rise together. They both deliberately turn their
backs upon La Vallière, and leave the room. For some moments she stands
as if turned into stone. Then she gives a wild scream, raises her small
hands, clutches the delicate curls that hang about her face, and rushes
from "the Grey Chamber."
"Dishonoured—banished! Ah, God! what will become of me?" she cries
distractedly when she has locked herself in her own room. "Ah! what
will my mother say when she knows all? Holy Virgin, I am lost!"
She paces up and down the floor—she sobs, she moans. Everything about
her reminds her of the King. She handles the presents he has given her;
she takes out his letters; she kisses them; she presses them to her
bosom. She tries to collect her thoughts, but the murmur of the night
wind, sweeping over the trees in the adjacent forest and whistling
round the angles of the palace, catches her ear. To her excited
imagination it wails lamentations over her. As she listens she seems to
hear her mother's voice reproaching her. Now as the blast rises higher
and higher it is her father, who curses her in the tempest that sweeps
by. Trembling in every limb she rises and dashes the glittering baubles
she still holds in her hands to the ground. Her head reels, her reason
totters. Fresh sobs and fresh torrents of tears come to her relief.
Suddenly the same idea, in the same place, rushes into her mind as had
struck Louise de Lafayette, yet under widely different circumstances.
Louise de Lafayette, a creature so pure, so angelic as to start back
dismayed from the faintest whisper of a too ardent love—she, Louise
de la Vallière, held up to public contumely, dismissed the Court! She
must fly; she must never be heard of more. She can never return home.
A convent must hide her. "God alone and the blessed saints are left to
me!" she cries; "wretch that I am, let me seek them where they may be
found."
As soon as the grey morning comes creeping into her room, lighting
up her white face and crushed figure, as she leans back in the chair
where she has sat immovable all the live-long night, she rises, and
puts together a little bundle of necessaries. She covers herself with
a cloak, and softly opening the door, makes her way down the nearest
flight of stairs. No one sees her, for the day is only dawning. She
glides swiftly out of the palace, passes the gate, where the sentinel
is sleeping at his post, and finds herself in the street of the little
town of Saint-Germain. Her heart beats so quickly, and her steps are
so rapid, that she is soon obliged to stop for want of breath. Not
knowing where to go, she leans against the corner of a house. She
strains her eyes up and down the street in every direction, but sees no
one of whom she can ask her way. At last, at the bottom of the _grande
rue_, a country woman appears, carrying a basket on her arm. She is on
her way to market. Louise flies towards her. The woman stares at her.
La Vallière's lips move, but she has no breath to speak.
"God speed you, pretty lady. Where are you going so early?" asks the
peasant.
"_Ma bonne_," at last answers La Vallière, when she has recovered her
breath, "can you tell me the way to Chaillot? I want to go to the
convent."
Now, Chaillot was a convent founded by Henrietta Maria, Queen of
England, situated between Saint-Germain and Paris, no vestige of which
now remains.
"Surely, _belle dame_, I can tell you. Come with me, I am going that
way," and the woman stares at her again. "Why are you out so early? Are
you from the palace?"
"No, no!" gasps La Vallière, terrified to death lest the woman's
suspicions should be aroused, and that she would refuse to let her
follow her. "I am not from the palace. Ask me nothing. I can only tell
you that a great misfortune has happened to me, and that I am going to
consult the Superior of Sainte-Marie, at Chaillot, who is my friend."
The peasant asks no more questions, and La Vallière, who clings to her
side, arrives in due time under the walls of Chaillot.
"There, mademoiselle, is the Church of the Sisters of Sainte-Marie. God
speed you."
Louise rings the bell, and asks the portress to be permitted to speak
with the Superior.
"She is in retreat, madame, and cannot be disturbed," the portress
replies.
"In the name of God, my sister, tell her that a person in great
affliction craves her help."
The portress does not immediately answer, but leads her into a hall
within, at one end of which is the latticed _grille_ which divides the
professed nuns from the lay sisters.
An hour passes, and no one appears. La Vallière, fatigued by the
unaccustomed exercise, almost distracted, gazes wistfully at the
bare walls that surround her. This then is to be the living tomb of
her youth, her love. This grim refuge or the grave. She turns to the
strong door, bound with iron bars, by which she entered, and shudders.
She watches the handle; no one comes, not a sound breaks the silence.
It seems to her that God and man have alike forsaken her—a creature
so vile, so unworthy. Her repentance has come too late. Heaven's
mercy-gates are closed! A wild, unreasoning terror seizes her—her brain
beats as with iron hammers—she grows cold and faint—a mist gathers
before her eyes—a deadly sickness creeps over her—she falls senseless
on the stone floor.
When she opens her eyes, she is lying upon a clean bed, shaded by snowy
curtains, in a little white-washed cell; two dark-robed Carmelite
sisters are bending over her.
It was not long before the King heard that La Vallière had fled. Not
daring to make too public inquiries, he sent for the superintendent of
police, La Regnie.
"Find Mademoiselle de la Vallière," he says, "dead or alive; find her
instantly—instantly, I say, or I dismiss you from my service."
This was not difficult; the trembling steps of the fugitive were
soon traced. La Regnie returns, and informs his royal master that La
Vallière is within the Convent of Chaillot. Louis does not lose a
moment in following her. He appears at the convent gate, accompanied
by his confidant, Lauzun. He demands admittance. Some of the older
nuns, scandalised at the idea of a man entering the cloister, refuse
to unlock the gate; but the Mother-Superior, wiser in her generation,
herself descends, and key in hand undoes the fastenings, and welcomes
his Majesty with the utmost deference.
Meanwhile, La Vallière, somewhat recovered from her swoon, sits alone
beside a narrow window which overlooks the convent garden. She feels
dull and oppressed; her eyes are dazed; her head is heavy.
The perfect silence around her, the homely little cell looking into a
peaceful garden, full of herbs and vegetables for the service of the
convent, in one corner a grove of cypress-trees, which overtops the
high walls that encircle it, is all new and strange to her. She seems
to have passed into another world. She remembers but indistinctly all
that has happened; she has almost forgotten how she came there. A
pensive melancholy paralyses her senses. She is very weak and helpless;
her brain is still confused. It is all very strange. She cannot
collect her thoughts, but over all the mists of memory, plain and
distinct, rise a face and form dear to her beyond life.
Suddenly a sound of approaching footsteps awakens the echoes of the
long corridor leading to the cell. As well as steps there is a confused
hum of many persons talking. At first she listens vaguely; then, as the
sounds grow nearer, she springs to her feet. A sound has struck upon
her ear—a sound sweeter than music. It is the King's voice! The door is
flung open, and Louis—his handsome face flushed with excitement, his
eyes beaming with tenderness—stands before her.
"Come," he says softly, whispering into her ear, and pressing her cold
hand within both his own, "come, my beloved, you have nothing in common
with this dreary place. I am here to carry you away. Fear no one; I
will protect you—I will glory in protecting you. Rise, my Louise, and
follow me."
The Carmelite sisters stand peeping in at the door. The Superior alone
has followed his Majesty into the cell. Some moments pass before Louise
commands her voice to speak; at last, in a scarcely audible whisper,
and trembling all over, she says—
"Sire,——" then, not daring to meet the King's impassioned glance, she
pauses; "Sire," she repeats, "I did not come here of my own accord.
I was obliged to leave. My remaining at Saint-Germain offended her
Majesty and other great personages—" she stops again, overcome
by the recollection of the scene with the Queen and the Duchesse
d'Orléans—"personages, Sire, whom I dare not—I _could_ not offend."
Her soft face is suffused with a blush of anguish; she hangs down her
head. "I was sent away, Sire; it was not my wish to go—indeed it was
not my wish!" she adds, in a voice so low and tremulous that Louis
could not have heard what she said had he not bent down his ear close
to her white lips.
"Then you shall return, dearest, for mine. I am master, and my wish is
law. I care nothing for 'august personages'; they shall learn to obey
me—the sooner the better."
"But, Sire, I cannot be the cause of strife. The Queen-mother and
Madame have dismissed me; and they were right," she added in a very
faint voice. "I dare not offend them by my presence, after——" She
stops, and can say no more.
"Think of the future, Louise, not of the past; it is gone," and Louis
takes her trembling hands in his. "A future lies before you full of
joy. Leave the Queen-mother to me, Louise. Come—come with me," and with
gentle violence he tries to raise her from her chair. "Follow me, and
fear nothing."
"Oh, Sire," whispers Louise, the colour again leaving her cheeks, "do
not tempt me from my vocation."
"Do not talk to me of your vocation," returns Louis roughly; "what is
your vocation to me? Can you part from me so lightly?" he adds, more
gently.
"Alas, Sire, I dare not return to Court; every look would condemn me!"
"Condemn you! Believe me, I will place you so high that no one shall
dare to condemn you. Am I not the master?"
"Oh, suffer me to lay my sins upon the altar! Do not seek to prevent
it," sighs La Vallière, clasping her hands. "But remember, Sire, oh,
remember, that in my heart you can have no rival but heaven." She
speaks with passion, but she dares not look up at him; had she done so,
she would have quailed before the expression of his eyes;—they devour
her.
All this is said very low, in order not to be overheard by the
Superior, who, although she has retired as far as the doorway, is still
present.
"Louise, you do not love me. You have never loved me," whispers Louis,
and he turns away. He is deeply offended; her resistance to his
commands enrages him.
"Ah, heaven!" La Vallière sighs, and turns her blue eyes, swimming with
tears, towards him, "would to God it were so!" She speaks in so subdued
a tone—she is so crushed, so fragile—that the King's compassion is
suddenly excited; he looks steadfastly into her face; he trembles lest
she may die under this trial. Again he takes her hand, raises her from
her chair, and draws her towards the door.
"If you love me, Louise, follow me. I cannot live without you!" he
adds almost fiercely. "Fear nothing. Her Majesty shall receive you.
The Queen-mother and Madame"—at their names La Vallière quivers all
over—"shall offend you no more. Leave this horrible cell, my Louise.
Come, and let me enshrine you in a temple worthy of your beauty, your
goodness, and of my love," he adds, in a fervid whisper, which makes
her heart throb with rapture. "Come!"
Louise returns to Saint-Germain. She is created Duchesse de la
Vallière, and is appointed Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Maria
Theresa.