AT VERSAILLES.
The Duchesse Louise de la Vallière, after her return from Chaillot,
lived much at the Hôtel Biron, a residence at Versailles presented
to her by the King. Her two children, the Comte de Vermandois and
Mademoiselle de Blois, were with her. The Hôtel Biron, a sumptuous
abode, situated between "court and garden," lay in a hollow close
to the yet unfinished Palace of Versailles, on the same side as the
reservoir. Adjoining were the royal gardens, already planned and
partially completed by Le Nôtre. These gardens, with the formal groves
and symmetrical thickets which enclose them, sloped downwards from
the grand terrace of the southern front, and overshadowed the hôtel,
giving it a sequestered, not to say melancholy aspect. On the other
side a wooded park stretched away in the direction of what was in time
to become the site of the two Trianons. The new Palace of Versailles
was as yet covered with scaffolding; innumerable workmen laboured
night and day on the north and south wings. The _corps de logis_, of
brick and stone, was alone completed, and though greatly enlarged and
beautified, still retained those suites of small rooms—_les petits
apartements_—portions of the original hunting-lodge, which was so
often visited by Louis XIII. in his hunting expeditions.
[Illustration: VERSAILLES FROM THE PIÈCE D'EAU DES SUISSES.
From an engraving by Rigaud.]
La Vallière lived a life of extreme retirement. She rarely appeared at
Court, except upon occasions of state, and received only such visits as
etiquette rendered necessary. Save the King, her confessor, and a few
intimate friends, she avoided every one. The splendour of the retreat
assigned her by the King pained and humiliated her. She was but too
conscious that in permitting herself to be dowered and ennobled by him,
she was exposing herself to the charge of ambition, arrogance, and
avarice—she, who only loved the man, and who shrank abashed from the
sovereign!
The very letters-patent by which Louis created her Duchesse de la
Vallière infinitely wounded her. It was intolerable to her to be
publicly addressed as "his singularly and entirely beloved Louise
Françoise de la Vallière, possessed of his Majesty's special and
particular affection." Vainly had she endeavoured to combat his
resolution thus to distinguish her; vainly had she entreated him to
allow her to sink into oblivion, forgotten by all save himself. Louis
had declared, and with truth, that after her flight to Chaillot and
her return to Saint-Germain, all mystery was impossible. He could
not bear, he told her, to see her continually suffering affronts
and mortifications in his own Court, to which her sensitive nature
specially exposed her, and from which even he could not screen her.
Vainly did he invoke all his authority as a sovereign, all his devotion
as a man, to raise the object of his love beyond the reach of calumny.
Vainly did he surround her with all that the luxury of kings, the
treasures of the state, and the refinements of love could devise to
reconcile her to her position. He could not stifle her conscience.
Louise could not bring herself to leave him, but she sank under the
consciousness of her sin.
When, by a formal declaration of the parliament, her children were
legitimatised and created princes of the blood royal, she was in
absolute despair. Again she conjured the King never more to let her
name be heard. But, selfish even to her, Louis commanded that she
should appear in the Queen's circle, and receive the congratulations of
the Court. A prey to anxiety and remorse, silent, yearning, solitary,
her health gave way. Her lovely figure lost its roundness, her violet
eyes their lustre. She grew dull, oppressed, and tearful, and her
lameness increased.
The Comtesse du Roule, formerly maid of honour to Madame Henriette
d'Orléans at the same time as La Vallière, was one of the few friends
she still received.
They had not met for some time when Madame du Roule called on her.
Madame du Roule found Louise seated alone in a pavilion overlooking
the palace of Versailles. She was so lost in thought she did not hear
her friend's footsteps. When she rose to receive her she looked more
delicate and dejected than usual.
"Dear Louise," said the Comtesse after having saluted her, "how I
grieve to see you so unhappy. Can nothing be done to console you?
Remember you are ruining your looks. Do you imagine that his Majesty
will care for you when you have made yourself wrinkled and ugly?"
"Alas, Celestine, I cannot help it! I ought not to be here", and
Louise kissed her tenderly, and placed her on a seat beside her. "This
magnificent hotel, those royal servants, my luxurious life—daily remind
me of my degradation. While I was unknown and poor, lost among the
crowd of a great Court, I was my own mistress. My heart was my own to
bestow. Now," and she placed her hand on her heart as if she suffered
"a price seems put upon me. I cannot bear it! Ah, why did I leave
Chaillot?" and her head, covered with light baby curls, sank upon her
bosom; and she heaved a deep sigh.
"But, Louise, if you love the King," said the Comtesse, laying her
hand gently on that of La Vallière, "you must accept the inevitable
position, else some one less scrupulous and more mercenary than
yourself will certainly take it."
"Ah, Celestine, that fear is ever present to me. It is agony to me;
it keeps me here. Do not imagine that I misunderstand my position. I
suffer because it is too painfully evident. Yet I love the King too
much to resign him. Love! ah, more—I worship him!" and she raised
her head, and an inner light shone from her soft grey eyes, that
made them glow with passion. "Is he not my master—my sovereign!" she
continued; "am I not bound to obey him? Could I exist without him?
Who else but Louis could have brought me back from Chaillot? Who else
could have torn me from the altar to which my heart still clings?
Celestine, I know I shall return to that convent."—The Comtesse smiled
incredulously.—"But," continued La Vallière, "when I see my faded face
in the glass, and I know I am faded and changed,"—Madame du Roule shook
her head deprecatingly—"I tremble—oh, I tremble lest I should lose him!
I know I ought to rejoice at his loss," added she in a broken voice;
"yet I cannot—I cannot!" and the tears streamed from her eyes, and she
covered her face with her hands.
"Have you perceived any difference in the behaviour of his Majesty of
late?" asked Madame du Roule, when La Vallière became more composed.
"Oh, what a question, Celestine! Such an idea never crossed my
mind—changed now, at this time—could it be possible? When I spoke of
losing him, I meant in the course of years—long, long years. Surely he
would not change now?" An agonised expression came into her face as she
spoke, and she turned appealingly towards her friend for reassurance
against what presented itself to her as some horrible dream.
"I only ask you this question for your good, dear Louise," answered
the Comtesse soothingly, imprinting a kiss on her pallid cheek. La
Vallière threw her arms around her neck, and made no reply. "I see you
are incapable of judging for yourself. If I ask a painful question, it
is to spare you, not to wound you. Answer me honestly, Louise—is his
Majesty changed?"
A shudder passed over the slender frame of La Vallière. For a time she
could not bring herself to reply; then hesitatingly she answered: "I
have fancied—but, oh heavens! may it be only a fancy—that his Majesty
finds his visits to me more dull than formerly. I am so depressed
myself, that must be the reason," and she bent her eyes upon her
friend, hoping that she would assent; but Madame du Roule only listened
with grave attention. "He has sat," continued Louise, evidently forcing
herself to a painful confession, "he has sat for half an hour at a
time quite silent, a thing unusual with him. He has remarked, too,
repeatedly, on my altered looks; he has often regretted my low spirits.
He is most considerate, most tender; but"—and she faltered more than
ever—"I fear that I depress him; and I have tried—" here her voice
dropped, and her eyes fixed themselves upon a medallion portrait of
Louis that hung round her neck by a chain of gold. She contemplated it
earnestly.
"That is just what I feared, Louise," and the Comtesse laid her hand
softly on her shoulder to rouse her from the deep reverie into which
she had fallen; "that is precisely what I feared. If you cease to amuse
the King, others will; he will leave you."
"Holy Virgin!" cried Louise, starting from her chair and clasping her
hands; "do not say so; such an idea is death to me!"
"Louise, be calm; reseat yourself, and listen to me. You rarely go to
Court; but you well know that his Majesty is surrounded from morning
till night with crowds of most fascinating, most unscrupulous women.
They follow him like his shadow; he cannot shake them off—even if he
would. The poor Queen, who is as stupid as an owl, sits in a corner,
sighs, and sulks, or plays at cards, and loses thousands to pass away
the time. But she says nothing, and has no influence whatever over her
husband. By-the-way, she is very jealous of you, Louise, and calls you
'the lady with the diamond ear-rings.'"
La Vallière blushed, then sighed; and again her dreamy eyes sought the
medallion portrait of the King, which she still held within the palm of
her hand.
"Rouse yourself, Louise; believe me there is need," urged the Comtesse.
"When the King visits you next, throw off these gloomy vapours; or,
if you cannot, invite some friend to be present and assist you in
entertaining him."
The tears gathered in La Vallière's eyes, and slowly coursed each other
down her cheeks.
"Alas! has it come to this, then? Do you indeed, Celestine, counsel me
to call on another to do that which was once my privilege? How he once
loved my company! how he praised my gentleness and my timidity, which
charmed him inexpressibly, he said, after the boldness of the ladies of
the Court."
"All this is folly," said Madame du Roule impatiently. "The King is
robust, happy, and fond of pleasure. He delights in the society of
women. You must, Louise, either return to Chaillot, as you say you
desire to do (excuse my frankness, dear, it is for your good), or you
must change. His Majesty is neither a penitent, nor ill, nor sad. Do
you know any one you can invite here when he comes?"
"No," replied La Vallière with a look of infinite distress upon her
plaintive face. "No one I could trust. Besides, the King might resent
it as a liberty. It is a matter needing the nicest judgment."
"The person, whoever she is," said Madame du Roule, "must be sincerely
attached to you, polished, agreeable, and sympathetic. She must be
good-looking, and not too old, either; for the King loves youth and
beauty. There is the new lady-in-waiting, the Marquise de Montespan.
You have seen her. She is a mere girl, just come to Court, and
belongs to no clique. She is as witty as a Mortémart ought to be, and
gloriously handsome. Such eyes, dear Louise, such colour! and there
is plenty of fun, not to say malice, about her. I would not have her
for an enemy! When she was presented to the Queen, there was the most
extraordinary sensation at Court—people stood on chairs to look at her."
"But, dear Celestine, what a hag I shall look beside this fresh young
beauty?" cried La Vallière in alarm.
"You need have no fear of that. The King is perhaps the only man in
the whole circle who does not admire her. You would be quite safe to
invite her. She is full of badinage, positively a child in her love of
amusement; her lively sallies will help to pass the time. She desires,
too, greatly to be presented to you, and has already conceived a
romantic friendship for you."
"Ah, Celestine, are you sure that this girl, this Mortémart—they are
a dangerous family—seeks me for myself alone? Are you sure that she
has no deeper motive for all these professions? I confess I have my
misgivings."
"You are quite mistaken, Louise. She is a naïve creature, clever
indeed, but guileless. You could not make a better choice. Take my
advice, ask his Majesty's permission to invite the Marquise next time
he comes. Believe me, he is perfectly indifferent to her. He will be
grateful to you for the attention; he will be amused. You will find him
return to his first ardour, he will be as devoted as at first. You will
recover your spirits; you will return to Court" (La Vallière shook her
head sadly), "and all will be well!"