MADAME DE MONTESPAN.
Athanaise de Mortémart, Marquise de Montespan, the most beautiful woman
of her age, was, at this time, twenty-two years old. She was fair, but
not so fair as La Vallière. Her features were faultless, and there was
an aureole of youth and freshness about her that made her irresistible.
She affected to be careless, impulsive, even infantine; but she
was in reality profoundly false, and could be insolent, cruel, and
domineering; a syren or a fury, as suited her humour or her purpose.
There was no mercy in those voluptuous eyes that entranced while they
deceived; no truth in those coral lips that smiled only to betray.
No sooner was she informed that the Duchesse de la Vallière would
receive her, than she flew to the Hôtel Biron. Louise was astounded at
her extraordinary beauty.
"How much I thank you, Marquise, for your goodness in sparing a few
hours from the gaieties of the Court to visit a poor recluse like me."
"On the contrary, Madame la Duchesse, it is I who am grateful"; and the
Marquise kissed her on both cheeks. "Ever since I came to Court, I have
longed to become acquainted with you. No words can express the love and
respect I entertain for you."
"Alas! madame, I fear that you cannot know me. I deserve no respect,"
replied La Vallière sadly. "If you can love me, I shall be satisfied."
"Love you, dear Duchess! I will devote my life to you, if you will
permit me such an honour," cried Madame de Montespan, her eyes flashing
with eagerness. "Will you allow me to look on you as an old friend?"
"I shall consider it a privilege," replied La Vallière.
"I have so often talked about you with the Comtesse du Roule, that I
feel already as though we were long acquainted," continued Madame de
Montespan; and she seized La Vallière's small hand and pressed it. La
Vallière returned her caress more quietly. "Dear Duchess," exclaimed De
Montespan impulsively, "I am so young, so inexperienced."
"And so beautiful," added La Vallière, smiling.
"Well, I am told so, madame. Your counsel will be invaluable to me. I
am yet but a novice at Court."
"I will be a mother to you," replied Louise meekly. But, in her inmost
heart, she asked herself, "Am I indeed so old, so changed, that she can
accept this offer from me? It seems but yesterday I was as young and as
light-hearted as herself!"
"I know little of the Court now," replied La Vallière, speaking in a
very subdued voice. "What I do know, can be of little service to you.
Heaven guard you from my experiences!" and a deep sigh escaped her.
"Oh, Madame la Duchesse, wherever you are, _there_ is the Court. Your
modesty only adds to your merit. We all know _you_ are the dispenser of
all favour, all power—that your word is law." This was spoken rapidly
by the Marquise, who all the while kept her eyes on the Duchess to
study the effect of her flattery.
"God forbid," replied La Vallière coldly; and a look of displeasure
contracted her brow for an instant. "I possess no power of that kind,
madame. I would never permit myself to exercise any such influence over
his Majesty, I assure you."
The crafty Marquise saw she had made a mistake, and instantly set about
repairing it. She sighed, affected an air of deep concern, and cast
down her magnificent eyes. Then she timidly stretched out her hand to
clasp that of La Vallière.
"Will you teach me your patience, your resignation? Will you teach me
to bear sorrow?"
"Gracious heavens! what can a creature so young and brilliant know of
sorrow?"
"Much. Alas! too much!" The beautiful Marquise raised her handkerchief
to her eyes. "Monsieur de Montespan never loved me. It was a marriage
arranged by my sister, Madame de Thiange. She sacrificed me to family
arrangements; he to his love of play—he is a desperate gambler. Worse
still, he is a libertine." She paused, and tried to blush. "Can I,
dare I hope, Madame la Duchesse, to find a friend in you? Nay more—a
protectress? May I be permitted to ask your counsel?"
"Reckon on me," cried La Vallière, who was deeply interested in this
artful appeal. Madame de Montespan cared no more for her husband than
he did for her. "Come to me whenever you need advice, whenever you
want sympathy or protection. Come to me freely—at all hours, at all
times—this house is yours."
"But, Madame la Duchesse, his Majesty may perhaps object to my presence
here. I do not think he likes me. He has scarcely once addressed me
during the few times I have been at Court."
"Ah, I will arrange that," answered La Vallière, her face all aglow
with excitement. "I will manage that you shall be here when he comes.
To see you, dear Marquise, as I do now, must be to esteem and respect
you. His Majesty's heart is so excellent, all his ideas so great, so
noble! You shall help me to entertain him; you have such charming
spirits, such a sunny smile."
Madame de Montespan gave a little start. She could with difficulty
conceal the delight this speech gave her, La Vallière had so completely
fallen into the trap she had laid. Again she kissed her thin white
hand, and pressed the long delicate fingers laid confidingly in her own.
"What an honour!" she exclaimed. "How happy I shall be to serve you in
the smallest way, in return for all your goodness!"
"To serve _me_!" repeated La Vallière, gazing at her vacantly. "Not
to serve me—that is impossible. Ah, no one can serve _me_. My life
is a long remorse. I love—with my whole soul I love. That love is a
crime. I can neither leave the King nor can I bear to remain. God's
image rises up within me to shut out his dear form from my eyes. Alas,
alas!—I prefer him to God." La Vallière melted into tears. She sank
back on her chair, lost to all else but the agony of her own feelings.
Madame de Montespan observed her with a look of sarcastic scrutiny. No
shade of pity tempered her bold stare. Her eyes were hard as steel, her
full lips were compressed.
"How I admire your devotion to his Majesty," she said, in the most
insinuating voice. "It is extraordinary." Her kind words singularly
belied her cruel expression, but Louise, blinded by her tears, did
not observe this. "What astonishes me is that, feeling as you do,
you can endure to remain here—so close to the palace, almost living
in the Court, so long. In such magnificence too,"—and she gave a
spiteful glance round the superbly decorated saloon. "You must have
extraordinary self-command," she added artfully, "immense self-denial.
I suppose you see his Majesty often, Madame la Duchesse?" she asked
this question with well-affected indifference, fixing her eyes steadily
on poor La Vallière, who still lay back in her chair, weeping. "He is
always at Versailles. It must be a great trial, and with your religious
convictions too." As she spoke she carefully noted the effect each word
produced upon La Vallière.
"Alas!" replied her victim, her cheeks now suffused with a burning
blush, "I see him almost daily. Those hours are all that render life
endurable."
"Do you really mean this, dear Duchess?" returned Madame de Montespan,
feigning extreme surprise. "I should have imagined that the refinement
of your nature would have rendered the indulgence of a guilty passion
impossible."
"Ah! I see you despise me," groaned poor La Vallière, overcome by
shame. "I cannot wonder. Young and pure as you are, I must be to you an
object of horror."
"Oh, Madame la Duchesse, what a word! On the contrary, I admire the
sacrifice you make."
"Alas!" interrupted La Vallière, "it is no sacrifice. I cannot tear
myself from him because—because—" she stopped for a moment, then added
hastily, "I fear to give him pain. It seems to me I ought to bear
anything rather than hurt one whose love has raised me so near himself.
I have not the courage to wound him—perhaps to embitter his whole life.
No, although conscience, duty, religion command it, I have not the
courage." La Vallière turned aside and hid her face.
Madame de Montespan fell into a deep muse. Again an expression of
cruel determination passed over her fair young face, and she gave La
Vallière a glance in which malice, anger, and contempt were mingled. La
Vallière, absorbed in her own sorrow, did not perceive it.
"How I grieve for you, dear friend," Madame de Montespan continued,
speaking in her sweetest voice. "How I respect your scruples. Are you
sure," added she, carefully noting the effect of her words, "that the
King would _really_ suffer from your absence as keenly as you imagine!"
"I have never dared broach the subject," answered La Vallière, looking
up. "My remorse I cannot hide. He knows I suffer, he sees I am ill. But
I would not for worlds openly acknowledge that I wish to forsake him."
"Yet, dear Duchess, this struggle will kill you. What a balm to your
sensitive feelings the solitude of a convent would be! Among those holy
sisters, in a life of prayer, you would find new life."
"I know it—I know!" cried La Vallière, passionately; "but how to leave
him—how to go?"
"Perhaps, Duchess, I may assist you," and Madame de Montespan bent,
with well simulated interest, over the slight form beside her,
and gazed inquiringly into the trusting eyes that were turned so
imploringly upon her. "I might be able to place this dilemma before
his Majesty as your friend, dear Duchess. A third party is often able
to assist in a matter so delicate. If his Majesty would indeed suffer
as poignantly as you imagine, your departure is out of the question. I
could at least learn this from himself in your interest."
Louise sprang to her feet, she threw her soft arms round Madame de
Montespan, and nestled her pale face on her bosom.
"At last I have found a real friend," she cried; "at last I have found
one who understands me. But," and she looked up quickly into the
other's face, with a confidence that was most touching, "you will say
nothing to his Majesty. Not a word. Be here when he next comes. (I will
ask his permission.) You will then be able to judge for yourself—to
counsel me. I would rather suffer torture, I would rather die, than
give him a moment's pain, remember that," and La Vallière put out her
little hand and pressed that of Madame de Montespan, whose face was
wreathed with smiles.
"Do you think his Majesty will consent to my presence here?" asked
Madame de Montespan, carefully concealing her feelings of exultation,
for she foresaw what the reply must be.
"I will make him," cried La Vallière. "I will teach you exactly how to
please him—what to say—never to contradict him—to watch the turn of his
eye, as I do. The ice once broken, your tact, your winning manners,
will make all easy."
Madame de Montespan acquiesced. She strove to appear careless, but she
knew that her fate was on the balance. If she met the King there, she
was resolved her rival should not long trouble her.
"Then you will tell me what I ought to do," continued La Vallière. "I
shall be for ever grateful to you—you will reconcile me to myself!"
* * * * *
When next the King visited La Vallière, Madame de Montespan was
present. She was as plainly dressed as was consistent with etiquette.
At first she said little, sat apart, and only spoke when the King
addressed her. But afterwards, gradually feeling her way, she threw
in the most adroit flattery, agreed with all he said, yet appeared
to defer in everything to La Vallière. Sometimes she amused him by
her follies, and brought with her a team of mice she had tamed and
harnessed to a little car of filigree, to run upon a table; sometimes
she astonished both La Vallière and the King by her acute observation,
her daring remarks, and pungent satire. The King's visits to the
Hôtel Biron became longer and more frequent. If Madame de Montespan
was not there he asked for her, and expressed regret at her absence.
The Comtesse du Roule inquired anxiously of La Vallière if Madame de
Montespan was useful to her. Reports had reached her which made her
uneasy. It was said that this beautiful young friend, whom she had so
unwittingly introduced to La Vallière, had designs of her own upon the
King; and that she openly boasted that she would speedily supplant the
Duchess.
Madame du Roule had also heard that Monsieur de Montespan had appeared
at the Queen's circle dressed entirely in black, and that on being
asked by the King for what relative he wore such deep mourning, had
replied—
"For my wife, Sire."
La Vallière laughed at this story, and would not listen to a syllable
against her new friend.