LOUISE DE LA VALLIÈRE.

THE young King Louis XIV. was active, vigorous, and graceful. He excelled in outward accomplishments, in riding, dancing, and fencing; but intellectually he was both idle and ignorant. His education had been purposely neglected by Cardinal Mazarin; and he was so fully aware of it, that he carefully avoided displaying his ignorance by a too facile or rapid address. Even in youth he was grave and ceremonious; in later years he became pompous and overbearing. On the other hand, the refinement of his mother's nature was reproduced in the son of her love. He was brought up by her side in a circle as elegant and refined as the HÔtel de Rambouillet in its palmiest days. He never forgot the lesson he then learnt, that the outward proprieties of life must be studiously observed, whatever freedoms may be permitted in private. He desired all his life to be considered pious, just, and moral. He failed in each, for his passions were strong and his temper was imperious. The vicissitudes of his early life during the civil wars of the Fronde, when he was often obliged to fly at a moment's notice from place to place, gave him, however, a power of assuming calmness and dignity under all circumstances, which he could never have acquired in less eventful times.

Above all sovereigns Louis understood the art of reigning, of appearing to be a great king when he was really but a shallow, vain, irresolute man, extraordinarily accessible to flattery. Yet that a son of Louis XIII. should say with truth, "L'État c'est moi," and dare to drive out the national Parliament solemnly assembled in the legislative chamber, whip in hand, is one of the most striking anomalies in history.

In person Louis resembled his father. He was dark, broad shouldered, and rather short, with regular features and a prominent nose. But he had all the fire of his mother's Spanish eyes, and withal the grandest manners and the most royal presence ever seen. From a boy he was an ardent admirer of the fair. All his life he continued to be secretly ruled by female influence. Indeed, his long reign may be divided into three periods, corresponding with the characteristics of the three women who successively possessed all the love he could spare from himself. He was gentle, humane, and domestic with La ValliÈre; arrogant, heartless, and warlike with De Montespan; selfish, bigoted, and cruel, with De Maintenon.

His boyish philandering with the handsome nieces of Cardinal Mazarin has been already noticed. What subtle plans developed themselves in the brain of that unscrupulous schemer never can be known; but he could not have arranged matters better to place one of his nieces on the throne of France. Nor to his Italian notions would this have been extraordinary. Mazarin would have argued that a Mancini was as well born as a Medici, whose arms were a pill, and that Martinozzi was as ancient a name as Bourbon.

Anne of Austria looked on with displeasure. Mazarin wore an imperturbable front, a sphinx-look, ready to answer either way, as circumstances might prompt. By the time that Maria Mancini came from Rome, Louis's passions were thoroughly roused. The young lion had tasted blood, and found it pleasant to his palate. Maria was far less beautiful than her sisters,—indeed, that bitter-tongued chronicler, Bussy Rabutin, calls her "ugly, fat, and short, with the air of a soubrette"; but she had the temper of an angel, and seemed to the boyish Louis a soft, plaintive, clinging creature, who appealed to his pity. In reality she had a force of character ten times greater than his own, and the courage of a heroine.

In Maria Mancini, Mazarin made his great move in the matrimonial game. Louis gave signs of a serious attachment. Anne of Austria set a watch upon him. It was needful. Louis had a temperament of fire, Maria was born under an Italian sky. Notwithstanding the watch set Louis found opportunity to promise marriage to Maria. He repeated this promise with protestations and oaths, but, cautious even in his youth, he did not, like his grandfather Henry IV., commit it to writing.

Mazarin, informed by his niece of what had passed, opined that the time to speak had come. He ventured to sound the Queen-mother. He spoke of the charms of genuine attachment, the happiness of domestic life on a throne; he hinted at the Queen's own unhappy career, sacrificed as she had been to a political alliance. He enlarged on the antiquity of the Latin races, specially those of Rome and Sicily, "all of them," he said, "once reigning houses, and poverty," he added, "did not make blue blood red."

The Queen, however subservient to the Cardinal on all other matters, flared out—"If ever my son condescends to marry your niece," cried she, "I will disown him. I will place myself, with his brother, Philip of Orleans, at the head of the nation, and fight against him and you, Cardinal Mazarin."

The Cardinal had many consolations; he was fain to yield. Maria was sent to a convent. Poor Maria—to go to Brouage instead of sitting on a throne! It was very hard. Louis was in despair. When they met to say adieu, he wept.

"What, Sire!" she exclaimed; "you love me—you weep—and we part?" and she turned her liquid eyes upon him with a look of passionate entreaty.

Perhaps the tears in the King's eyes blinded him, or he did not hear her; at all events, he heeded neither her look nor her innuendo, and she went.

Then those marriage bells sounded from over the frontier of which we have spoken. The King espoused the Infanta of Spain, and Maria Mancini became La Principessa Colonna, and lived at Naples.

The Court is at Saint-Germain. Louis XIV. was born there, and until Versailles and Marly were built, he made it his principal residence. In one of the principal saloons, on the first floor, lying midway between the turreted angles of the faÇade, looking over the plains towards Paris, Louis XIII. had ended his miserable existence, his private band playing a "De Profundis," of his own composition, during his death throes. His morbid nature—reproduced in his descendant Louis XV., who said he loved "the scent of newly made graves"—made him await the approach of death with a sort of grim curiosity. As he lay on his bed, opposite the windows, his dim eyes resting on the wide expanse outstretched below, he called Laporte to him. He was so near his end that he articulated with difficulty. "Remember, my good Laporte," he gasped, "that place, below there, where the road turns under that rise,"—and he raised his shrunken finger, and pointed to a particular spot, on the road to Saint-Denis, along which his funeral procession must pass to reach the tombs of his ancestors—"that place there. It has been newly gravelled, Laporte. It is rough, and will shake me. Let the driver go gently over the loose stones. Be sure to tell him I said so."

This was not like his son, Louis XIV., who came to detest Saint-Germain because this very Cathedral of Saint-Denis, where he must be buried, was visible on the horizon line. Such an object did not suit a monarch who desired to be thought immortal.

The Court is at Saint-Germain. It is a cool, delicious evening, after a day of unusual heat. The summer evenings are always charming at Saint-Germain, by reason of the bowery freshness of the adjacent forest, from which cool breezes come rippling through the air, and fan the heated atmosphere. The sombre chÂteau is now a mass of deep shadow, save where the setting sun lights up some detail of its outline—an arched window, a rich cornice, a pillared portico, or a pointed tower, which stand out against the western sky with fugitive brightness. The parterre blazes with summer flowers, the perfume of which creeps upwards in the rising dews of evening. The formal gravel walks are bordered by statues and orange-trees; the splashing of many fountains stirs the air. A flock of peacocks strut on the greensward, their long tails catching the last rays of the sunset. The summer birds make delicate music among the shrubberies; and the giant elms, in the outer park, divided from the garden by an open iron railing, bow their rounded heads to the breeze.

When the sun has set, a merry party, consisting of four of the maids of honour, leave the chÂteau by a side door. They run swiftly along the terrace,—frightening the peacocks, who drop their tails and fly screeching into the trees,—and ensconce themselves in a trellised arbour, garlanded with honeysuckles and roses, hid in a thicket of flowering shrubs skirting one side of the parterre. Once there, their tongues are let loose like so many cherry-clappers.

It was so nearly dark that the maids of honour did not notice the King as they scudded along the garden, who, attended by the mischief-loving Comte de Lauzun, had also stolen out to enjoy the evening. Louis watched them as they ran, and then, hearing their voices in such eager talk, was seized with an intense desire to know who they were, and what they were saying. He dare not speak, for they would hear him, and perhaps recognise his voice. Signing to his confidant Lauzun to follow him, he softly approached the arbour in which the four girls are hid.

He finds that they are all talking about a fancy ball given the night before by Madame Henriette, Duchesse d'OrlÉans, his brother's wife; and particularly about a ballet in which he himself had danced. The King and Lauzun, favoured by the increasing darkness of the night, and well entrenched behind the shrubs, lose not a syllable.

The question is, which dancer was the handsomest and the most graceful? Each pretty lady has, of course, her own predilection. One declares for the Marquis d'AlenÇon, another will not hear of any comparison with M. de Vardes, a third stoutly maintains that the Comte de Guiche was by far the handsomest man there and everywhere else (an opinion which, par parenthÈse, Madame herself takes every opportunity of showing she endorses, displaying, moreover, this opinion somewhat too openly, notwithstanding her designs on the heart of the King himself, whom she fancies, and others declare, is, or has been, her admirer). The fourth damsel is silent. Called upon to give her opinion, she speaks. In the sweetest and gentlest of voices she thus expresses herself:—

"I cannot imagine how any one could have been even noticed when the King was present. He is quite fascinating."

"Ah, then, mademoiselle, you declare for the King. What will Madame say to you?"

"No, it is not the King nor the crown he wears that I declare for; it is not his rank that makes him so charming: on the contrary, to me it is rather a defect. If he were not the King I should positively dread him. His position is my best safeguard. However——" And La ValliÈre drops her head on her bosom and falls into a deep reverie.

On hearing these words the King is strangely affected, he whispers to Lauzun not to mention their adventure; they retire silently as they came, and re-enter the chÂteau. The King is in a dilemma. If he could only discover who this fair damsel is who prefers him to all others with such naÏvetÉ—who admires him for himself alone, and not for his rank—a preference as flattering as it is rarely the lot of a monarch to discover! All he knows is that it must be one of the maids of honour attached to the service of Madame Henriette, his sister-in-law, and he cannot sleep all night, he is so haunted with the melting tones of her voice, and so anxious to discover to whom it belongs.

In the morning, as soon as etiquette allowed of his appearing, Louis hurries off to the toilette of Madame, whom he finds seated before a mirror of the rarest Dresden china, looped up with lace and ribbons, her face and shoulders covered with her long brown hair.

"Your Majesty honours me with an early visit," says she, colouring with pleasure as he enters. "What plans have you arranged for the hunt to-day? When are we to start?"

Louis, with his usual politeness—shown, be it recorded to his credit, towards any woman, whatever might be her degree—gallantly replies that it is for her to command and for him to obey. But there the conversation drops, and the Duchess observes that he is absent and preoccupied. This both chagrines and disappoints her. Piqued at his want of empressement, she turns from him abruptly and begins conversing with the Comte de Guiche, who with ill-disguised uneasiness had stood aloof watching her warm reception of his Majesty.

Henriette, the royal daughter of the Stuarts and the Bourbons, without being positively handsome, has the air of a great princess. The freshness of her complexion is, however, all that is English about her. Her forehead, high and broad, but too much developed for beauty, gives a certain grandeur to her expression; her eyes are sparkling, but placed too near together. Still her face is intelligent and lively. She is tall, slim, and very graceful. Around her long neck, on which her small head is admirably set, is bound a single string of fine orient pearls, and a mantle and train of turquoise faille fall back from a flounced petticoat of yellow satin.

While Madame Henriette talks with the Comte de Guiche, Louis is at liberty to use his eyes as he chooses, and he hastily surveys the group of lovely girls that stand behind the Princess's chair. One placed a little apart from the rest rivets his attention. Her pale and somewhat melancholy countenance imparts an indescribable air of languor to her appearance, and the graceful tournure of her head and neck are admirable.

"Can this be she?" he asks himself. He hopes—he fears (he was young then, Louis, and not the blasÉ dÉbauchÉ he afterwards became)—he actually trembles with emotion, suspense, and impatience. But determined to ascertain the truth, and regardless of the furious glances cast at him by Madame,—who evidently neither likes nor understands his wandering looks, directed evidently to her ladies, and his total want of empressement towards herself,—he approaches the fair group and begins conversing with them, certain that if that same soft voice is heard that had never ceased to echo in his ears, he shall at once recognise it. He speaks to Mademoiselle de Saint-Aignan, but his eyes are fixed on the pale face of La ValliÈre, for she it was whom he so much admired. La ValliÈre casts down her eyes and blushes.

The King advances towards her and addresses her. He awaits her reply with indescribable anxiety. She trembles, grows still more pale, then blushes crimson, and finally answers in a voice tremulous with timidity; but it was the voice! He has found her. This, then, is the unknown, and she loves him; her own lips confessed it. Delightful! He leaves the apartments of Madame abruptly in speechless ecstasy.

From that day he sees, he lives only for La ValliÈre. Ever in the apartments of his sister-in-law, it was evident even to her that he did not come to seek her, and her rage knew no bounds. She had hitherto had ample reason to believe that the attachment the King felt for her somewhat exceeded that of a brother. With the spiteful penetration of a jealous woman, she now discovers how often the eyes of Louis are fixed with admiration on the timid, downcast La ValliÈre. She is not, therefore, long in guessing the object of his preference, and the cause of his frequent visits to her apartments. From this moment she hates poor Louise, and determines, if possible, to ruin her.

The King on his part, unconscious of the storm he was raising about La ValliÈre, is enchanted not only with herself, but with all he hears of her character. She is beloved by every one; her goodness, sweetness, and sincerity are universally acknowledged, and the account of her various good qualities tend to enhance her merit.

When the Court returns to Saint-Germain (now, can one fancy romance within those dingy walls?—but so it was), Louis is desperately, head and ears over, in love. A party of pleasure is arranged to take place in the forest under a tent formed of boughs, tapestry, and flowers. The ladies invited to this sylvan retreat are habited as shepherdesses and peasants. They form charming groups, like SÈvres china. On their arrival the most delicious music is heard from the recesses of the leafy woods, which as it plays at intervals, now here, now there, among the trees, is the signal for the appearance of various groups of satyrs, fauns, and dryads, who after dancing grotesque figure-dances, and singing verses in honour of the King, disappear, to be quickly replaced by another troupe. These present flowers, and also sing and dance as no dryads or fauns had ever dreamed of in classic bowers, but in a style quite peculiar to the age and taste of le Grand Monarque, who liked even nature itself to appear as artificial and formal as he was himself. This agreeable fÊte has lasted all day, and the company is about to return, when, conceive the alarm—a violent storm comes on, thunder rolls, the sky is suddenly overcast, and a heavy rain, enough to drench the whole Court to the skin, descends with remorseless violence. How every one scuds hither and thither! The thickest trees are eagerly seized on as a slight protection against the storm. Others hide themselves in the bushes, some penetrate deeper into the cover of the copse wood. Spite of the rain, and the destruction of the dresses, the ladies come to vote it rather an agreeable incident on the whole, when they find their favourite cavaliers beside them, placed, perchance, somewhat nearer than would have been comme il faut in the Court circle. For although the ladies might really at first have been a little terrified, the gentlemen are certainly not likely to be troubled with any nervousness on account of a thunderstorm, and preserve sufficient sang-froid each to select his lady-love in order to protect her from the weather. Thus it chanced that Madame Henriette finds herself under the care of the Comte de Guiche; the fair Mancini, once beloved by the King, now Comtesse de Soissons, is under the protection of her dear De Vardes; and Mademoiselle d'OrlÉans—la Grande Mademoiselle—is completely happy, and forgets the thunder, rain, and, more wonderful still, her own dignity, at finding herself escorted by Lauzun!

The King, nowise behind his courtiers in gallantry, at once offers his escort and his arm to support La ValliÈre, who, naturally timid, is really frightened, and clings to him with a helplessness that enchants him. All the world knows she is a little lame, a defect which was said in her to be almost a grace. Now she does not perhaps regret that this infirmity prevents her running as quickly as the rest, and thus prolonging the precious moments passed alone with the King. Louis places her under a tree, where they are both protected from the rain and are shrouded by the thick boughs which hang low and fringe the grass.

The King seizes on this happy opportunity to declare his passion, and to whisper to La ValliÈre the love she has inspired ever since that evening, when he had overheard her. Poor Louise! She had never dared to imagine that her love was returned, and she well-nigh faints as the King proceeds. Her heart beats so violently it is almost audible. She is actually on the point of rushing from under the tree, when the King lays hold of her hand, and retains her.

"What!" cries he, "do you fear me more than the storm? What have I done to frighten you? you whom I love, whom I adore! Why do you hate me? Speak, I implore you, Louise."

"Oh, Sire! do not say hate. I revere you—I love you—as my King, but——"

"Sweet girl, I breathe again. But why only love me as your Sovereign—I, who cherish your every look, who seek only to be your servant—your slave?"

Saying this, Louis falls on his knees upon the grass; he seizes her hands, which he covers with kisses; he swears he will never rise until she has promised to love him, and to pardon the terror his declaration has caused her.

Mademoiselle de la ValliÈre cannot control her emotion. She implores him to rise.

"You are my King," she says, "the husband of the Queen. My royal master, I am your faithful subject. Can I say more?"

"Yes, dearest, promise me your love. Give me your heart; that is the possession I desire," murmurs Louis.

Pressed by the King to grant him some mark of her favour, La ValliÈre becomes so confused she cannot reply. Louis grows more and more pressing, interpreting her emotion as favourable to his suit. In the midst of the tenderest entreaties the thunder again bursts forth, and poor Louise, overcome at once by fear, love, and remorse, swoons away. The King naturally receives the precious burden in his arms. He seeks hastily to rejoin the other fugitives and his attendants, in order to obtain assistance. Ever and anon he stops in the openings of the forest to gaze at her, as she lies calm and lovely in repose, her long eye-lashes sweeping her delicate cheeks, her half-closed lips revealing the prettiest and whitest teeth. I leave my readers to imagine if Louis did not imprint a few kisses on the fainting beauty he bears so carefully in his arms, and if now and then he did not press her closer to his breast. If in this he did take advantage of the situation chance had afforded him, he must be forgiven; he was young, and he was deeply in love.

Words cannot describe the surprise felt by La ValliÈre on recovering to find herself alone, borne along in the King's arms, in the midst of a lonely forest. History does not, however, record that she died of terror, or that she even screamed. The respectful behaviour of the King doubtless reassured her.

The moment she opens her sweet blue eyes he stops, places her on the ground, and supports her. He assures her that being then near the edge of the forest, and not far distant from the chÂteau, they are sure to meet some of his attendants. Louise blushes, then grows pale, then blushes again, as the recollection of all the King had said to her while under the shade of the greenwood gradually returns to her remembrance. She reads the confirmation of it in his eyes. Those eyes are fixed on her with passionate ardour. Disengaging herself from his arms, she thanks him, in a faltering voice, for his care a thousand times—for his condescension. She is so sorry. It was so foolish to faint; but the thunder—his Majesty's goodness to her—— Here she pauses abruptly; her conscience tells her she ought at once to reject his suit; her lips cannot form the words.

While she is speaking, a group of horsemen are visible in the distance, at the end of one of those long woodland glades which divide the forest. On hearing the voice of the King, who calls to them, they gallop rapidly towards him. The King and La ValliÈre reach the chÂteau shortly after the other ladies, none of whom, as it appeared, had been in haste to return.

From this moment La ValliÈre's fate is sealed. Long she had loved and admired the King in secret; but until she learnt how warmly he returned this feeling she was scarcely aware how completely he had enthralled her. The ecstasy this certainty gave her first fully revealed to her the real danger of her situation. Poor Louise! Is it wonderful that, as the scene of this first and passionate declaration, she should love the old ChÂteau of Saint-Germain more than any other spot in the world?—that when suffering, the air restored her? when unhappy (and she lived to be so unhappy), the sight of the forest, of the terrace, revived her by tender reminiscences of the past?

When the secret of Louis's attachment to La ValliÈre transpired (which, after the scene in the forest was very speedily), nothing could exceed the indignation of the whole circle, who each conceived that they had some especial cause of complaint.

Louis's old love, the Comtesse de Soissons (Mancini), with the thirst for practical revenge bred in her hot Italian blood, held council with De Vardes and De Guiche, how to crush her, whom she styled "the common enemy." A letter was planned and written by the Countess in Spanish, addressed to the Queen, purporting to come from the King of Spain. This letter detailed every particular of her husband's liaison with La ValliÈre. The bad spelling and foreign idioms, however, betrayed it to be a forgery.

The letter was placed on the Queen's bed by the Comtesse de Soissons herself. Instead of falling into the Queen's hands, as was intended, it was found by De Molena, Maria Theresa's Spanish nurse. She carried it straight to the King. He traced it to Madame de Soissons. She was banished.

Madame Henriette d'OrlÉans was more noisy and abusive than any one. Her vanity was hurt. Her feelings were outraged at the notion that the King, heretofore her admirer, should forsake her openly for one of her own women! It was too insulting.

"What!" cried she in her rage, "prefer an ugly, limping fillette to me, the daughter of a king? I am as superior in beauty to that little minx as I am in birth! Dieu! qu'il manque de goÛt et de dÉlicatesse!" Without even taking leave of Louis she shut herself up at Saint-Cloud, where she made the very walls ring with her complaints.

The poor, quiet little Queen, the only really injured person, wept and mourned in private. She was far too much afraid of that living Jupiter Tonans, her husband, to venture on any personal reproaches. She consoled herself by soundly abusing La ValliÈre in epithets much more expressive than polite.

In this abuse she was joined by Anne of Austria, who, in her present austere frame of mind, was the last person in France to spare La ValliÈre.

An explanation was decidedly needful.