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.

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.