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.

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!"