BROKEN-HEARTED.
It was evening. The day had been intensely hot. Now, stormy clouds scud
across the western skies, and the sun sets in a yellow haze, which
lights up the surrounding woods. Groups of stately elms that tuft the
park cast deep shadows upon the grass; their huge branches sway to and
fro in the rising wind, which moans among the thickets of laurels and
lilacs separating the grounds of the Hôtel Biron from the royal gardens
of Versailles.
Louise la Vallière sat alone in a gorgeous boudoir lined with mirrors
and gilding. She was engaged on some embroidery. As she stooped over
the frame on which her work was strained, her countenance bore that
resigned and plaintive expression habitual to it. She was still
graceful and pretty, and her simple attire gave her the appearance of a
girl.
As the failing light warned her that night was approaching, she put
aside her work, seated herself beside an alcoved window which opened
upon a terrace, and listened to the wind, each moment growing more
boisterous among the neighbouring forests that topped the hills towards
Saint-Cloud.
Suddenly the door opened, and Madame de Montespan appeared. After
saluting La Vallière, she seated herself in an easy-chair opposite
to her. Her bearing was greatly changed. No longer subservient and
flattering, she was now confident, familiar, and domineering. Her eyes
wandered round the room with a defiant expression. The very tone of her
voice showed how much she assumed upon the consciousness of favour. She
was more beautiful than ever; many jewels adorned her neck and hair
which she had never worn before.
"Louise," said she, with an air which, if intended to be gracious, was
only patronising, "I can only stay for an instant. How dismal you look!
what is the matter?"
Louise shook her head despondingly. "Nothing more than usual."
"The Queen is just arrived from Saint-Germain; I am in attendance. I
escaped for a few minutes, accompanied by the Comte de Lauzun. We came
through the gardens and the thicket by the private alley. You must
not ask me to stay; her Majesty may inquire for me. Lauzun is waiting
outside on the terrace by the new fountain."
"Will he not come in?" asked La Vallière.
"No, he is in attendance on his Majesty, who is engaged at this moment
with the architect. He may call for him at any moment."
"Do you think I shall see his Majesty this evening?" asked La Vallière
timidly, looking up and meeting the haughty stare of the Marquise.
"I imagine not. It is late, and his Majesty has said nothing of such an
intention."
"Yet he is so near," murmured Louise sadly.
"Monsieur de Lauzun tells me that the flotilla of boats is ordered for
this evening. There is to be a water party on the canal; the shores are
to be illuminated. I trust it will not rain."
"How I envy you—not the water party, but that you will see the King,"
and La Vallière's eyes glistened.
"Adieu, adieu, _ma belle_! I can't keep Lauzun waiting," and Madame de
Montespan rose and left the boudoir as hastily as she had entered it.
Louise had also risen to attend her to the door. She did not reseat
herself, but stood gazing wistfully after her. She anxiously bent her
ear to catch every sound. Louis was close at hand; he might still come.
A thrill of joy shot through her at the thought. Once the sound of
footsteps was audible, and a flush of delight overspread her face.
The sound died away, and again the night wind, sighing without, alone
broke the silence. Her heart sank within her. She rebuked herself, but
in vain; spite of remorse, spite of self-conflicts, Louis was dearer to
her than life.
[Illustration: MADAME DE MONTESPAN.]
It was rapidly growing dusk; only a little light still lingered in
the room. A feeling of utter loneliness, a foreboding of coming
misfortune, suddenly overcame her. The shadows of approaching night
seemed to strike into her very soul. She started at her own footstep
as she crossed the parquet floor towards a taper which stood upon a
marble table, covered with costly trifles given to her by the King. She
stretched out her hand to light it. When she had done so, something
sparkled on the floor close to the chair on which Madame de Montespan
had been seated. Louise stooped down to see what it was. She at once
recognised some golden tablets which she had often noticed in the hands
of Madame de Montespan. The diamonds, set in the rich gold chasing,
and the initials, had caught the light. The snap was open. It was so
dark that La Vallière held it close to the taper in order to close the
spring. In doing so the tablets fell open—her eyes fixed themselves on
the pages. An expression of horror came into them as she gazed. Could
it be, or was she dreaming? All the blood in her body rushed to her
heart. She put down the light which she had held, and, with the tablets
in her hand, sat down to collect her senses, for her head was dizzy.
Could it be? Yes; it was the handwriting of the King. How well she knew
it—each stroke, every little turn of the pen, how she had studied it!
As she passed page after page through her quivering fingers, each bore
the same well-known characters. She tried to read; a film gathered
over her eyes. Yet she must read on. She pressed her hand upon her
brow; her brain seemed on fire. At length a desperate resolution gave
her power—she read. There were verses of passionate fondness, signed
"Louis." The first dated three months back; the last only yesterday.
She would have wept, but the tears froze ere they reached her eyes.
With a great effort she collected her scattered senses and began to
think. Madame de Montespan must have dropped these tablets on purpose.
She saw it all. They fell from her hand upon the floor. Lying there she
gazed at them in silence. Then she glanced round the room. It was now
quite dark; the burning taper only served to deepen the gloom—Louise
knew she was alone in the world; the King loved another.
With the composure of despair she took up a pen to address him before
she fled, for fly she intuitively felt she must. She was not capable of
reflection, but it came to her quite naturally as the only thing that
remained for her to do, to fly; and where could she go but to Chaillot,
to the dear sisterhood?
"You have ceased to love me," she wrote; "the proofs are in my hand,
written by yourself. The last time we met you told me how dear I was to
you; let me never hear your beloved voice speak another language. I do
not reproach you; you have treated me as I deserved. But I still love
you as when we first met among the woods of Fontainebleau. If ever you
waste a thought upon me, remember that death alone can quench that
love."
Alas for the weakness of human nature! La Vallière, once within the
walls of Chaillot, shut herself into the same cell she had before
occupied, and repented that she had come. "I ought to have seen the
King, and to have questioned him myself. Madame de Montespan may have
purposely deceived me. That she must be false I know too well. Who can
tell if it is not all a device to rob me of Louis? I may myself be but
a tool in her hands. If I had seen him, all might have been explained.
He is my master; I had no right to leave him. Oh! I wish I had not
come!"
Thus she reasoned. Her soul was not yet wholly given to God. Further
trials await her. Breathlessly she waited for what might happen; the
creak of a door made her heart beat; every footstep made her tremble.
At the end of some hours the door opened and the Prince de Condé was
announced.
"What, alone! Once he would have come himself," she murmured.
Composing herself as best she could, she rose to meet him. The Prince
placed in her hands a letter from the King; he desired her to return
immediately to Versailles with the bearer.
La Vallière meekly bowed her head and obeyed.
No sooner had La Vallière returned to the Hôtel Biron than the King
arrived. He was ruddy with health; his eyes flashed with the vigour
of manhood. His bearing was proud, yet dignified. On his head was a
hat trimmed with point lace and jewels, from which hung a fringe of
white ostrich feathers, which mixing with the dark curls of his peruke,
covered his shoulders.
"Let us live our old life again," said he, uncovering, and taking
her hands in his. "I hate explanations. Believe me, your presence
here, _under all circumstances_," and he accentuated these words, "is
necessary to my happiness."
"But, Sire, Madame de Montespan?"
Louis became crimson; a momentary frown knit his dark eyebrows.
"I desire you to receive her as heretofore," he replied hurriedly.
"Louise, it is a sacrifice you must make for my sake. You will not
refuse. It will endear you to me more than ever."
As he spoke he looked at her tenderly.
"Sire, I cannot," she replied firmly, casting her eyes on the ground.
"How! You dare to refuse me? Louise, I command you." The King drew
himself up; he laid his hand heavily on her shoulder. Then, seeing how
wasted and frail she was, and how her slight form quivered under his
touch, he added in a softened tone, "Louise, I entreat you."
A deep blush suffused her cheeks. Some moments passed before she could
command her voice. "Sire," she replied at last, and her white lips
trembled, "Sire, I can never again live the old life,—but I will obey
you."
The King was about to rush forward to embrace her. She stopped him by a
gesture gentle yet determined. He fell back.
"Sire, you love another. Hitherto I have quieted my conscience by the
conviction that I was needful to you. Now I know it is not so. Take
back these tablets, Sire. Can you deny these verses, written by your
own hand but a few days since?"
Louis stood before her, silenced, confounded. Her composure astonished
him. Before him was La Vallière—hitherto his slave, now so determined!
Her hand rested on a table for support. She was deadly pale, and
carefully avoided his gaze. He was deeply moved.
"Do I not offer you enough?" said he.
"No, Louis, it is not enough. I will obey you; I will receive Madame
de——" Her voice dropped, and the hated name was inaudible. "Nay, I will
do more; I will again appear at Court if you command it, but all hope,
all joy, is dead within me."
She uttered these words deliberately. It was despair that gave her
courage.
Then she raised her eyes, and rested them for the first time on him,
with an agonised expression. "I must have your undivided love as
heretofore, or——" and she paused. "I know that my words are sinful,"
she added. "I have fled from you; now I am returned for a little space."
Louis looked perplexed. "But, Louise, believe me, that you are still
inexpressibly dear to me; my heart has wandered, it is true, but you
yet possess my affection, my esteem."
"It is not enough," repeated La Vallière in a low voice, "it is not
enough. You are turned from me, you have joined in deceiving me; I am
supplanted."
The tears sprang involuntarily into the King's eyes as he stood with
folded arms contemplating her. He did not dare approach her. How
strange it seemed that one so meek and gentle could be so firm. Never
before had her lips uttered anything to him but words of tenderness.
Once more she spoke.
"As long as you desire it, Sire, I will remain. It is a penance I
shall offer up to God, to remain and to see you love another." She
turned her large grey eyes up to heaven as she spoke. "When you give me
permission, I shall become a Carmelite."
"I will never permit it!" cried Louis, stamping his foot upon the
floor. A scowl passed over his face; he was angry, offended, at her
obstinacy; his imperious will could not brook contradiction. "You have
never loved me!" he exclaimed.
"Sire!" cried La Vallière. "Not loved you!"
"No; you have always preferred your religious scruples to me. You have
tormented me with your remorse. You know nothing of the intoxication
of passion. _You_ ought to have gloried in my love, as others do," he
muttered, in a low voice, turning from her.
"Sire," cried La Vallière, stung to the quick by his injustice, "I am
at this moment forcing my conscience to obey you and to remain."
"You are too weak, too feeble, for a great passion," continued the King
hurriedly. "Others can feel it, however."
"I have never sold myself for ambition, Sire, as others do. I have
never desired anything of you but yourself, and I have lost you."
Louis, crimson with passion, did not reply. He strode up and down the
room in moody silence. La Vallière for a time was also silent. Her eyes
followed him. His face was hard, and no glance told her that he even
pitied her. It was too much. The strain upon her gentle nature gave
way. The pent-up tears rushed to her eyes, she burst into heart-rending
sobs and sank upon a seat. The King watched her, but he spoke not a
word. His look was stern and set. For a while her tears flowed fast,
and her bosom heaved wildly. Then she rose to her feet, and approached
him. "All is over!" she said, in a voice almost inarticulate with
sobs. "Never—never—will I trouble your Majesty more. Your will shall
be now as ever my law. Eternal silence shall cover my justly merited
sufferings. I have nothing more to say. Permit me to retire." She
turned and left the room; her heart was broken.
Bossuet was her director. To him she applied for counsel. She told him
that her very soul yearned for a convent. Bossuet questioned her,—her
passionate remorse, her penitence, her courage, her resignation touched
him deeply. She seemed to be purified from all earthly stain. Bossuet
advised her to take six months to consider her vocation, during which
time she was to speak to no one of her project. La Vallière bowed
her head and obeyed. At the termination of the time, she publicly
declared her intention of becoming a Carmelite. The King received
this announcement with some show of feeling. He sent Lauzun to her,
and offered to make her abbess of the richest convent in France. He
entreated her not to expose her feeble health to the austerities of
so severe an order. La Vallière replied that her resolution was
unalterable. Before leaving the Hôtel Biron she asked for a private
audience of the Queen. It was granted. With a veil over her face, and
dressed in the dark robes of the order which she was about to enter,
a hempen cord around her waist, to which hung a rosary and cross, she
entered the Queen's private apartments at Versailles. Maria Theresa was
alone. La Vallière raised her veil, her face was moist with tears, she
tottered forward with difficulty and sank upon her knees.
"My royal mistress," said she, in a faint voice, "I come to crave your
pardon. Oh, Madame, do not, I implore you, repulse me. Alas! if I have
sinned I have suffered. Suffered—oh, so bitterly, so long! In a few
hours I shall be forgotten within a convent."
The Queen, a woman of the most kindly and womanly feelings, was deeply
affected.
"Ah, Madame la Duchesse," said she, "I have learnt to know how much I
owe you. My life was much happier when you were at Court. I beg you to
believe I shall be glad to have you again about my person."
"Your Majesty honours me beyond expression," answered La Vallière,
curtseying to the earth.
"Does the King know of your departure, Madame la Duchesse?"
"He will know it after I have acquainted your Majesty."
"Surely he will not consent?" asked the Queen.
La Vallière shook her head—"My mind is made up, Madame. If I live for
one year, I shall be a professed Carmelite."
"I am sorry," replied Maria Theresa simply, "very sorry. If my good
wishes can serve you, Madame la Duchesse, you have them most sincerely.
Should you, however, carry out your intention, allow me to present you
with the black veil. It is a public mark of respect I would willingly
pay you."
La Vallière was so overcome she could not at once reply, then kissing
the Queen's hand which she held out to her, she said: "Your Majesty's
goodness makes me hope that, as you have deigned to pardon me, I may
still, by a life of penitence, reconcile myself with God. I most humbly
thank you."
This interview over, she returned to Versailles. She distributed her
possessions as though she were already dead. She assembled her servants
in her oratory, and earnestly craved their forgiveness for all that
she had said or done amiss. She exhorted them to be devout, to keep
the fasts of the Church, and to serve God. She was thus occupied until
past midnight. Towards morning she called her coach, and bid her people
drive her quickly towards Chaillot. As she passed along she gazed
eagerly on the blooming country for the last time. It was the month of
June. The orchards were laden with the promise of coming fruit; the
newly mown grass, sparkling with morning dew, made the meadows glisten,
the birds carolled in the hedge-rows, and the hills, embowered in
forest, rose green against the azure sky. Louise was still young; it
was her last look on that world which had once been so pleasant to her.
At six o'clock in the morning she arrived at the convent. The Superior,
accompanied by all the nuns, apprised of her arrival, was in waiting to
receive her.
"My mother," said La Vallière, kneeling at her feet, "I have used my
liberty so ill, that I am come to give it up into your hands."
Her long and beautiful hair was cut off before she entered the convent
as a novice. A year afterwards she made her profession. The Queen and
the whole Court were present—all save the King and Madame de Montespan.
Bossuet preached his celebrated sermon. Then the Queen Maria Theresa
descended from the tribune, where she had been seated in company with
_La Grande Mademoiselle_, and invested her with the black veil. She
kissed her tenderly on the forehead as she did so.
La Vallière, now Sister Louise de la Miséricorde, made an exemplary
nun. She wore horse-hair next her skin, walked barefoot along the stone
pavement of the convent, and fasted rigorously. She died at sixty-six,
wasted to a skeleton by her austerities. Her end was peace.