LOUISE DE LAFAYETTE—the only child of Comte Jean de Lafayette, of Hauteville, and of Margaret de Boulon-Busset, his wife—was the young lady selected to fill the vacant post of maid of honour to the Queen, vice De Hautefort, banished.

So long a time had elapsed since the departure of the latter that it seemed as though Anne of Austria never intended to replace her; however, the new mistress of the robes, the Duchesse de SennÉcy, a distant relative of Mademoiselle de Lafayette, urged the Queen so strongly in her favour, that the appointment was at last announced.

Louise de Lafayette had passed many years of her girlhood in a convent, and was somewhat dÉvote, but she was sincere in her piety, and good-natured to excess. Not only was she good-natured, but she was so entirely devoid of malice that it actually pained her to be made acquainted with the faults of others. Perhaps her chief characteristic was an exaggerated sensibility, almost amounting to delusion. She created an ideal world around her, and peopled it with creatures of her own imagination, rather than the men and women of flesh and blood among whom she lived—a defect of youth which age and experience would rectify. She possessed that gift, so rare in women, of charming involuntarily—without effort or self-consciousness. When most attractive and most admired, she alone was unconscious of it; envy itself was disarmed by her ingenuous humility.

Louise was twenty-three years old when she was presented to the Queen at Fontainebleau by the Principessa di Mantua, during her morning reception. The saloon was filled with company, and great curiosity was felt to see the successor of Mademoiselle de Hautefort. The most critical observers were satisfied. The new maid of honour, though modest and a little abashed, comported herself with perfect self-possession. She was superbly dressed, had a tall and supple figure, good features, and a complexion so exquisitely fair and fresh, and such an abundance of sunny hair, as to remind many in the circle of her Majesty when, in the dazzling beauty of her fifteenth year, she came a bride into France. But Anne of Austria never had those large appealing grey eyes, beaming with all the confidence of a guileless heart, nor that air of maiden reserve which lent an unconscious charm to every movement, nor that calm and placid brow, unruffled by so much as an angry thought.

Why had not Mademoiselle de Lafayette married? was the general question which passed round the circle.

“Because she has found no one worthy of her,” was the reply of her friend and cousin, the Duchesse de SennÉcy.

After the new maid of honour had made her curtsey to the Queen, who received her very graciously, the King (who had as usual placed himself almost out of sight, near the door, in order to ensure a safe retreat if needful) emerged, and timidly addressed her.

Since the scene at the monastery of the Val de GrÂce, and the discovery of Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s treachery, Louis had never once appeared at the Queen’s lever until this morning. At the few words of compliment he found courage to say to her, Louise blushed and curtsied, but made no reply.

The next day the King was again present at her Majesty’s lever. He did not speak, but his eyes never for an instant left the new maid of honour.

The Court was at this time greatly agitated by political events. The Spaniards were making the most alarming progress in France; they had penetrated in the north as far as Corbie, in Picardy; in the south they were overrunning Provence. Troops and money were both wanting. The position of the ministry was so critical that even Richelieu was at fault. Louis, roused from his habitual apathy, suddenly remembered that he was the son of a great warrior, and electrified the Council of State by announcing that he intended at once to take the field in person. A resolve so contrary to his usual habits excited great discussion and general interest.

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The Saloon of Saint-Louis, at Fontainebleau, opens from the royal guard-room. It is a noble apartment, divided into a card-room and a with-drawing, or, as we say, drawing-room. The decorations are the same as those in the Gallery of Francis I.; the walls, painted in fresco after designs by Primaticcio, are divided by sculptured figures, in high relief, entwined by wreaths of flowers, fruit, and foliage. The ceiling is blue, sown with golden stars. Lights blaze from the chandeliers disposed on marble tables and in the corners of the room, and display the artistic beauty of the various paintings and frescoes that cover the walls.

The Queen is playing cards with the Bishop of Limoges. The Court groups itself about the double rooms, and at the other card-tables. Near the Queen are her favourites of the hour, the Principesse di Gonzaga and di Mantua; the Duchesse de SennÉcy is in attendance. The King is seated on a settee in the darkest and most distant corner. Anne dares not now treat him either with impertinence or hauteur. If she cannot bring herself actually to fear him, she knows that he is capable of revenge. She has learnt, however, both to fear and to dread his minister, Richelieu, under whose insolent dominion Louis’s life is passed. Madame de Chevreuse is no longer at hand to tempt her into rebellion, and she has learnt to submit quietly, if not contentedly, to her lot. She has perceived the impression made upon the King by her new maid of honour, and looks on amused and indifferent. Of the absolute goodness and perfect rectitude of Louise de Lafayette, no one, and certainly not the Queen, could entertain a doubt.

As she pushes the cards towards the Bishop of Limoges to deal for her, which he does after making her a low bow, she turns round, the better to observe his Majesty. He has moved from the settee, and is now seated in earnest conversation with Mademoiselle de Lafayette. A sneer gathers about the corners of her rosy mouth, and her eyes dwell upon him for an instant with an expression of intense contempt; then she shrugs her snowy shoulders, leans back in her chair, takes up the cards that lie before her, and rapidly sorts them. The conversation between Louis and Mademoiselle de Lafayette is low and earnest. His naturally dismal face expresses more lively interest, and his lack-lustre eyes are more animated than they have been for years. As to the maid of honour, she listens to him with every faculty of her being, and hangs upon his words as though, to her at least, they are inspired.

“The condition of France,” the King is saying, “overwhelms me. Would that I could offer up my life for my beloved country! Would that I possessed my great father’s military genius to defend her! I go, perhaps never to return! Alas! no one will miss me,” and he heaves a heavy sigh, and the tears gather in his eyes.

The maid of honour longs to tell him all the interest she feels for him, her genuine admiration, her devotion, her pity for his desolate condition; but she is new to court life, and, like himself, she is too timid as yet to put her feelings into words. She sits beside him motionless as a statue, not daring even to lift up her eyes, lest they may betray her.

“Happy, ah! happy beyond words is the man who feels he is beloved, who feels that he is missed!”—here Louis stops, casts a reproachful glance at the Queen, whose back was towards him, then a shy, furtive look at Mademoiselle de Lafayette, whose heightened colour and quickened breathing betrays the intensity of her feelings: “such a one,” continues the King, “has a motive for desiring fame; he can afford to risk his life in the front of the battle. Were I”—and his voice sinks almost into a whisper—“were I dear to any one, which I know I am not, I should seek to live in history, like my father. As it is,” and he sighs, “I know that I possess no quality that kindles sympathy. I am betrayed by those whom I most trust, and hated and despised by those who are bound by nature and by law to love and honour me. My death would be a boon to some,”—again his eyes seek out the Queen—“and a blessing to myself. I am a blighted and a miserable man. Sometimes I ask myself why I should live at all?” It was not possible for the human countenance to express more absolute despair than does the King’s face at this moment.

“Oh, Sire!” was all Mademoiselle de Lafayette dare trust herself to reply; indeed, she is so choked by rising sobs that it is not possible for her to say more.

The King is conscious that her voice trembles; he notices also that her bosom heaves, and that she has suddenly grown very pale. Her silence, then, was not from lack of interest. Louis feels infinitely gratified by the discovery of this mute sympathy. All that was surpressed and unspoken had a subtle charm to his morbid nature. After a few moments of silence, Louis, fearful lest the Queen’s keen eyes should be turned upon them, rises. “I deeply deplore, mademoiselle, that this conversation must now end. Let me hope that it may be again resumed before my departure for the army.” Louise does not reply, but one speaking glance tells him he will not be refused.

At supper, and when she attends the Queen in her private apartments, she is so absent that her friend, Madame de SennÉcy, reprimands her sharply.

The next morning the Duchess went to her young cousin’s room. Madame de SennÉcy had a very decided taste for intrigue, and would willingly have replaced the Duchesse de Chevreuse in the confidence of Anne of Austria, but she wanted her predecessor’s daring wit, her adroitness, witcheries, and beauty; above all, she lacked that generous devotion to her mistress, which turned her life into a romance. Now Madame de SennÉcy thought she saw a chance of advancing her interests by means of her cousin’s growing favour with the King. She would gain her confidence, and by retailing her secrets excite the jealousy and secure the favour of the Queen.

“My dear child,” said she, kissing Louise on both cheeks, a bland smile upon her face, “will you excuse my early visit?” She seated herself opposite to Mademoiselle de Lafayette, the better to observe her. “Excuse the warmth with which I spoke to you last night in the Queen’s sleeping-room; but really, whatever attention the King may pay you, ma chÈre, you must not allow yourself to grow careless in her Majesty’s service. As mistress of the robes, I cannot permit it. All the world, my dear cousin, sees he is in love with you”—Louise blushed to the roots of her hair, shook her head, and looked confused and unhappy—“of course he loves you in his fashion. I mean,” added Madame de SennÉcy quickly, seeing her distress, and not giving her time to remonstrate, “a perfectly Platonic love, nothing improper, of course. He loves you timidly, modestly, even in his most secret thoughts. I am told by his attendants that the King shows every sign of a great passion, much more intense than he ever felt for Mademoiselle de Hautefort, who, after all, trifled with him, and never was sincere.”

“I do not know the King well enough, Duchess, to venture an opinion on his character,” replied Mademoiselle de Lafayette, with diffidence, “but I may say that if I had any prepossessions against his Majesty, I have lost them; I am sure he is capable of the tenderest friendship; he longs to open his heart to a real friend. His confidence has been hitherto abused.”

“My dear child, I have come here to advise you to be—well—that friend.”

“Oh! madame, I fear I am too inexperienced to be of use to him; but if the King does ask my advice, which seems very presumptuous in me to suppose, I shall conceal nothing that I think, neither facts nor opinions.”

“Ah, my cousin, try to rouse him; make him reign for himself; tell him to shake off that dreadful Cardinal.”

“That is, I fear, impossible; I am too ignorant of politics. Besides, what can I do now? he is going away to the war.”

“Well, but, petite sotte, he will return, and you will meet again.”

“Oh, no,” replied Louise, again colouring under the scrutinising eye of the mistress of the robes, “he will forget me long before that.”

“Nothing of the kind, Louise,” replied the Duchess, “the King never forgets anything.”

“Dear Duchess, you really are talking nonsense. What on earth could make the King care for me?” and she sighed deeply, and fell into a muse. “I do pity him, though,” she added, speaking with great feeling; “I pity him, I own. He is naturally good—brave—confiding,” and she paused between each word.

“I am glad you find him so,” answered the Duchess drily.

“Yet he ill fulfils his glorious mission,” continued Louise, as if speaking to herself. “He is conscious of it, and it pains him. I am sure he suffers acutely.”

“Heal his wounds, then,” said the Duchess, with a cynical smile, but speaking in so low a voice that Mademoiselle de Lafayette did not catch the words.

“Ah! if he had but one true friend, he might emulate his great father! Did you hear, Duchess, with what firmness he addressed the deputies yesterday, who had refused to register the royal edicts for raising the necessary funds for the army? ‘This money,’ he said, ‘is not for myself, but for the nation, and to maintain the national honour. Those who refuse it, injure France more than her enemies, the Spaniards. I will be obeyed,’ he said. There was energy! Oh, it was noble!” and her eyes glistened and cheeks glowed.

“I suppose the Cardinal had composed this neat little speech for him beforehand,” replied the Duchess with a sneer, contemplating her cousin with amused inquisitiveness. “You do not believe he ever spoke like that himself? You do not know him as well as I do, else you would not be so enthusiastic. However, it is all as it should be. I do not desire to disenchant you, I am sure. Au revoir,” and the Duchess left the room.

The next morning, before his departure for the campaign, Louis went to bid the Queen farewell. It was only a formal visit, and he stayed scarcely a minute. The Queen did not affect to care what might become of him. On leaving her audience-chamber he lingered in the anteroom in which her attendants were assembled. Mademoiselle de Lafayette was seated, with another maid, in a recess; she,—Mademoiselle de Guerchy,—seeing the King’s anxious looks, at once rose and retired. He immediately took her place, and signed to Louise to seat herself beside him. Separated from her companion, and sitting apart with Louis, Louise suddenly remembered that it was precisely thus the King had conversed tÊte-À-tÊte with Mademoiselle de Hautefort; she became greatly embarrassed.

“I come,” said the King, turning towards her, and speaking in a plaintive voice, “I come to bid you adieu.”

Louise bent her head, and put her handkerchief to her eyes. Louis started at seeing the big tears roll down her cheeks.

“I have enjoyed few moments of happiness in the course of my dreary life,” continued he, pressing her hand, “but this is one.”

He broke off, overcome apparently by his feelings. Louise wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Sire, believe me, I only feel the same emotion as thousands of your faithful subjects at a moment when you are about to lead the campaign against Spain. If you would condescend to inform yourself of general opinion you would find it as I say.”

“It may be, mademoiselle; but I only wish now to know your feelings. If you will indeed be to me the devoted friend I have so long sought in vain, my entire confidence shall be yours. I go to-morrow, but the most tender recollections will cling to me.” As he spoke he took her hand in his and kissed it with fervour. “Think of me, I implore you, with the same interest you now display. Believe me, my heart echoes all you feel. If I am spared, please God, your sympathy will be the consolation of my life.”

At this moment the Duchesse de SennÉcy opened the door, in order to cross the anteroom. The King started up at the noise, and walked quickly towards another door opposite. The Duchess stopped; looked first at Mademoiselle de Lafayette seated alone, covered with blushes, then at the retreating figure of the King. She took in the whole situation at a glance. It was too tempting an opportunity to throw away. There was a favour she specially desired to ask. This was the very moment. In his present state of confusion the King, only to get rid of her, was sure to grant it. She rushed after him, and before Louis could reach the door, she had seized upon him and spoken.

When he had gone the Duchess ran up to Louise, who was now stitching at some embroidery to hide her blushes, and burst out laughing.

“You are merry, Duchess,” said the maid of honour, glad that anything should divert attention from herself.

“I am laughing, Louise, at the admirable presence of mind I have just shown. As you are only a dÉbutante, I will explain what I mean for your special instruction. His Majesty does not exactly hate me, but something very like it. No love is lost between us. He dreads my making capital of all I see and hear to the Queen. He dreads my turning him into ridicule—which is so easy. Of all the persons about Court whom he would least have liked to have surprise him in the tender conversation he was holding with you, I am the one. He tried to reach the door. I saw my advantage, and pursued him. I knew he wanted to shake me off, so I seized the opportunity to ask a favour—of great importance to me. It is granted! Is not this clever? I am grateful, and will not repeat one word of this little adventure to her Majesty.”

Louise shook her head, and affected not to understand her. “You are altogether mistaken, Duchess. His Majesty simply honours me with such friendship as he might feel towards any loyal subject devoted to his interests. It is because the Court affects to despise him that I appear singular in estimating him at his true value; nothing else.”

“You are a prude,” exclaimed the Duchess, bluntly. “I hate affectation, especially of that kind.” Louise hung her head down, and played with some pearls with which the grey silk dress she wore was trimmed. “Besides, my little cousin, you must not sacrifice the interest of your friends, who have a right to look to you for favour and patronage.”

“Oh, Duchess, what a vile thought!” cried Louise; reddening. “Do you think I would make his Majesty’s friendship a matter of barter!”

“Oh, bah!” replied the Duchess, growing angry. “Louise, you are not so simple as you pretend. If you ask me the question, I reply, certainly your friends have a right to look to you—especially myself, who never let the Queen rest until she appointed you her maid of honour. She had almost made a vow never to fill up the place of her dear Mademoiselle de Hautefort.” Louise stared at the Duchess with a troubled look. Worldliness and meanness was a new and unpleasant experience—a fresh page in the history of the Court—that pained and revolted her.

“When the King returns,” continued Madame de SennÉcy, not condescending to notice her disapprobation, “I shall expect you to give me all your confidence. You shall have excellent advice in return. If you follow it, in six months’ time you will revolutionise the Court, and banish Cardinal Richelieu. You will by that one act secure the King’s friendship and her Majesty’s favour. Eh, Louise? a brilliant position for a little provinciale like you! You must mind what you are about, or the Queen will grow jealous. I will take care, on the first opportunity, to assure her you are only acting in her interests.”

“Jealous of me! Impossible!” cried Louise. “Such a great Queen! so beautiful, so fascinating! Oh, Duchess, you are joking.”

“Nothing of the kind. I warn you not to imagine that there is any joking at Court, or you will find yourself mistaken. Now I shall leave you, Louise. Think over what I have said. Remember what you owe to those friends whose influence has placed you in your present high position.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

As soon as the Duchess left her, Mademoiselle de Lafayette hastened to her room, locked the door and sat down to reflect calmly upon all that had passed. She was disgusted with the coarse selfishness of the Duchess, whom she determined for the future to avoid. Then her heart melted within her as she recalled the King’s tender farewell. How eagerly his eyes had, sought hers! How melodious was his tremulous voice! How tenderly he had pressed her hand! He had spoken out: he wanted a friend; he had made choice of her; he had promised her all his confidence! Delicious thought!

No one had ever dreamed of attaching the slightest blame to his intimacy with Mademoiselle de Hautefort. It would be therefore absurd to reject his advances. She was safe, she felt, entirely safe in his high principles, his delicacy, and his honour. If she could only teach him to be as firm as he was winning, release him from the bondage of favourites, emancipate him from the tyranny of Richelieu, and deserve his gratitude—perhaps his affection! With what energy she would address him on his return, and remonstrate with him on his indolence, his indifference! With his courage, his powers of mind (in which she sincerely believed), his sensibility and gentleness, guided by her devoted far-seeing friendship, might he not equal his father as a sovereign—surpass him, perhaps, as much as he now does in morals, as a man? All these vague ideas floated through the brain of the simple-minded girl as she sat musing within the solitude of her chamber.