CONNUBIAL BLISS.

THE Duc de Maine was invested with the principality of Dombes and the county of Eu. The deeds were signed in Madame de Montespan's apartments at Versailles.

The sacrifice once made nothing could exceed the ecstasy of Mademoiselle. After a separation of many years, Lauzun would be restored to her arms! He was free—he would be with her in a few days! The exquisite certainty of bliss intoxicated her senses.

On her return to the Luxembourg she flew to her room, and took a hand mirror from her toilette. She gazed at herself in it attentively; she asked herself, as she had already done a hundred times before, "Can he still love me? Are my eyes bright? Are my cheeks rosy? Is my hair abundant as in the old days when Lauzun praised it?"

The examination satisfied her. Joy had effaced the wrinkles, and brought a passing bloom back to her face. She overlooked her grey locks, those she could powder. Her lips parted into a smile. While she was still looking at herself, and turning her head in various positions in order to catch the light, a page entered, and announced, "Monsieur de Baraille" (he was a friend of Lauzun). Baraille's sudden entrance startled her. She turned round abruptly, stumbled against a chair, and the mirror, an oval of rock crystal set in a gold frame, dropped from her hand.

"Ah! Monsieur de Baraille," she cried, looking at the fragments which strewed the floor, "why did you come in so suddenly? This is a dreadful omen."

Mademoiselle de Montpensier is at Choisy. The agitation of her mind is indescribable. She has the gravest reasons for displeasure. Lauzun is in France, but shows no desire to see her.

At last he makes his appearance. He is dressed in an old uniform, which he had worn before his imprisonment; it was now too short, and too small for him, and shabby and torn. His hair, of a reddish shade, has fallen off during his long imprisonment, and he wears a black wig with flowing curls, which covers his shoulders. He enters her cabinet, by the gallery, hung with the portraits of her ancestors. At sight of him Mademoiselle springs to her feet, and opens her arms to embrace him. Lauzun throws himself on the ground before her. She raises him, covers him with kisses, murmuring words of fond endearment into his ear.

For a few moments each, overcome by widely different feelings, remains speechless. Lauzun examines her curiously. This inspection does not seem satisfactory. He knits his brow, and slightly shrugs his shoulders. Altogether his manner is far from reassuring. He does not care to conceal his surprise at the change he sees in the royal lady beside him. She is now sixty, her face is pinched and lined by age; her form bent and attenuated. She has put powder on her grey hair, which is decked with ribbons, and rouge upon her shrivelled cheeks, in a vain effort to appear young. But even her blind infatuation can no longer deceive her. She is old and she knows it.

"I must ask your pardon," says Lauzun at last, breaking an awkward pause, "for having been so long on the road to Paris to join you. My health is very delicate, it is weakened by long confinement. I was ill at Amboise." (The truth being that he had been engaged in a violent flirtation with the wife of the governor, the Marquise d'Alluye. Mademoiselle had been informed of this.)

As Lauzun speaks, Mademoiselle raises her eyes, and looks him in the face. It was the same deep harmonious voice, full of subtle melody, that had once charmed her ear, like a cadence of sweet music. There were the same clear eyes, whose glance ruled her destiny. Those eyes that had haunted her day and night for so many years, through the mists of time and absence. There were the features whose every turn she had studied with unutterable tenderness; those lips which had parted to utter words on which hung her very life. There before her was her Lauzun,—the object of such longing desire, such torturing suspense; of such eager strivings, of such willing self-sacrifice. But oh, how changed!

Now the scales had fallen from her eyes. For the first time she saw him as he was. He was her Lauzun no longer. She felt that she was repugnant to him. An agony of grief welled up within her; she could have screamed for very bitterness of soul in the wild impulse of her despair. But at this supreme moment her pride came to her support. Should she let him mock the strivings of her tortured spirit? gauge the abyss of her misery with his cold steely eye? No; mortal as were the wounds his cruelty had inflicted, they should still be sacred. She would say nothing. As she looks at him (and, looking at him, gazes also through the long vista of years that his presence recalls) she composes her countenance to an unnatural calmness, and she replies to him, in a voice almost as careless as his own—

"It gives me infinite pain to hear that you have been ill, but I rejoice to see you so perfectly restored. I never saw you looking better in my life."

A glare of anger passed into Lauzun's eyes, and he frowned. Again there was a long and awkward pause.

"You have laid out a great deal of money here at Choisy," he says with a sneer, his eyes wandering round. "I think you have been ill-advised to purchase this place. It is a mere guinguette, lying in a hole. What a useless building it is—so ill designed too!" and he casts his eyes contemptuously down the suite of rooms, the doors of which are open.

"Some people think it is not good enough for me," answers Mademoiselle, with forced calmness, although her lips tremble in spite of herself.

"Have you paid for it, madame?" asks Lauzun, with the utmost impertinence.

"I have paid for it," replies the Princess.

Lauzun now rises, and strides up and down the cabinet. He strolls into the adjoining gallery, eying the precious ornaments with which the tables are covered. He takes the most valuable articles in his hands and carefully examines them, holding them up against the light. Then he returns, stands opposite Mademoiselle, and examines her features with a stare of cynical scrutiny. She grows crimson under this insolent inspection, but says nothing.

"You would have done much better to have given me the money you have squandered here. I have suffered great misery."

"I have given you too much already, Monsieur de Lauzun," replies Mademoiselle, in an unsteady voice, for his heartless greed smote her to the very soul.

"I fear you are horribly cheated," adds Lauzun, not noticing her reply. Again he walks up and down the room. "I could manage matters much better for you. Will you make me your treasurer?"

He speaks eagerly, and there is a hungry gleam in his eye that bodes ill for Mademoiselle's revenues.

"No, I will not," answers Mademoiselle, firmly. "If you want to know, I have paid for this place forty thousand livres. I sold my string of pearls to purchase it."

"Oh! you have sold your string of pearls without consulting me?" interrupts Lauzun with an offended air. "What waste! What folly!"

He stops in his pacing up and down the room, and fixes his eyes upon her in another silent scrutiny.

"I see you still wear coloured ribbons in your hair. Surely, at your age, this is ridiculous."

"The Queen does the same."

"Are you not older than the Queen?"

"I am old, Monsieur de Lauzun," replies Mademoiselle, stung to the quick, yet speaking with dignity; "but persons of my rank dress according to established etiquette. Have you nothing more to say to me, Lauzun?" she says, in a low voice.

She can bear no more; her pride and her fortitude are rapidly forsaking her. She feels she is breaking down, spite of herself. She longs inexpressibly to fold Lauzun in her arms, to tell him all her love; to beseech him to return it, even ever so little a return, for that vast treasure she offers. But she is withheld by absolute shame.

"I have made great sacrifices to restore you to liberty, Lauzun," she continues, timidly, her voice almost failing her, and not daring to look up at him for fear of encountering his chilling gaze. "I have made many sacrifices. I understood that you approved of them." Lauzun does not answer. Mademoiselle speaks humbly now, for what is money, contempt, insult to her, so that he would love her, only a little? "I have also made arrangements with Colbert to pay your debts."

"I am obliged to you," replies Lauzun, with a sneer. "Let me tell you, however," and he advances close to where she is sitting and fixes his eyes fiercely upon her—"Let me tell you I would rather command the Royal Dragoons and be back again at Court in attendance on the King, than have all the money you have, or ever can give me."

Mademoiselle turns very faint, and clasps her hands. Her eyes close, as if she is going to swoon. Lauzun contemplates her unmoved. He does not offer her the smallest assistance.

"Good God!" she exclaims after a while, "how much I am to be pitied! I have despoiled myself and you are ungrateful."

"Louise," says Lauzun, feeling he has gone too far, stooping and trying to kiss her hand, "spare me hysterics. Let us talk business."

"We have talked nothing else," cries Mademoiselle, her indignation rising at his heartless indifference. "Not a word of affection has come from your lips," her voice grows thick and tears rush into her eyes. Spite of herself, she is rapidly giving way. It was the old fight between heart and no heart, man who feels nothing, woman who feels everything.

"I want my place at Court," says Lauzun, abruptly. "Will you use your influence to reinstate me? Else, I would rather have remained in prison at Pignerol." He speaks in a tone of the bitterest reproach.

"I will do what I can," Mademoiselle answers in a husky voice.

"Do what you can!" retorts Lauzun, turning upon her savagely, "do what you can! Morbleu, if you answer me like that, I will tell you the truth. You have ruined me—you have destroyed my reputation—lost me my position. Louise d'OrlÉans, I wish I had never seen you!"

"It is false," returns Mademoiselle, in a loud voice, her passion rising at his injustice; "it is false. I have not injured you—the King will tell you so himself." Lauzun is growing more and more defiant, almost threatening. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword. This is too much even for her to bear. "If you have nothing more to say, Monsieur de Lauzun, leave me." She speaks with the habit of command long years have given her.

"I will not go," cries he; "you have no right to order me. Am I not your husband?" Lauzun hisses out these last words, more like a venomous serpent than a man. He grasps the arm of Mademoiselle, who shrinks away from him. His whole bearing is wild and menacing. "You leave me without money, you who have lost me all I value in the world; you, who are old enough to be my mother!" Mademoiselle covers her face with her hands, she cowers before him. "Can you deny it? Instead of providing me with a proper residence and equipage when I came out of prison, I have not even a carriage of my own. I am in miserable lodgings with Rollinde, one of your people, while you—you live in a palace. I have no money to pay my debts."

"It is false," she replies, rising and facing him boldly. "I have paid your debts. If you have fresh ones they are gambling debts. Those I refuse to pay."

"But you shall!" roars Lauzun, stamping his foot and raising his hand as if to strike her. "I am your husband. I have a right to all you have."

"I will pay no more," shrieks Mademoiselle, now excited beyond fear. "Go to your friends, those ladies you love so well, Madame de Montespan and the others." She clenches her fist as the bitter pangs of jealousy shoot through her soul. "I will not pay such debts," she repeats; then she draws herself up, and faces him with a courage he has never seen in her before. It calms him instantly.

"Look at these diamond buttons you sent me. They are vile. You have such splendid jewels!" He lifts up his lace ruffles and displays a pair of solitaire diamonds of great beauty, which fasten his wristbands. He is as fawning and eager as a beggar.

"I will give you other diamonds," answers Mademoiselle with composure. "But what I do for you in future depends on your own conduct, Monsieur de Lauzun, or rather Duc de Montpensier, for such I have created you."

There was a depth of irony in thus addressing him by his title at this particular moment.

"Well, madame, as you please," answers Lauzun, contemptuously scanning her all over. "If I am not satisfied I shall go abroad and command foreign armies. I will go anywhere to rid myself of you. I hope never to see you again," and a look of undisguised hatred flashes from his eyes.

"You need not go far to rid yourself of me," cries Mademoiselle, incensed beyond bounds. "Leave me instantly, ungrateful man! You have sufficiently outraged me. In the presence too of my great ancestors," she adds, and with a stately action she extends her hand towards the portraits which hang around; "those ancestors, one of whose time-honoured titles I have given you. You might, I think, have chosen a more suitable spot for your insults," and she measures him from head to foot. Then with an imperious gesture she points to the door.

Still they met, Mademoiselle still clung to Lauzun. In the month of September they are together at Choisy for a few days. Lauzun has enormous gambling debts and wants money, therefore he is come. On returning one evening from hunting he sees Mademoiselle seated under the shade of one of the fine old elms in the park, her favourite tree. She is in tears. It is nine o'clock at night, she has long awaited his return; now it is nearly dark. Lauzun gallops up to where she sits. He dismounts, gives his horse into the hands of a servant, and casts himself on the grass besides her. By so doing he splashes her dress with mud, but he offers no apology. He unfastens the heavy hunting boots he wears, and endeavours to draw them off, but he does not succeed. Then he turns suddenly round and thrusts them into her face.

"Here, Louise d'OrlÉans," he says, "make yourself useful; take off my boots." Mademoiselle betrays no emotion, she only rises and returns to the house.

They never met again. A brief record remained of her existence, graven on the tomb, where she lay, among "the daughters of France," unloved—unmourned; a sad example, that riches to a woman are too often a curse. The brief record is as follows:—

"Anne Marie Louise d'OrlÉans, eldest daughter of Gaston de France: Souveraine Princesse de Dombes, Princesse Dauphine d'Auvergne, Comtesse d'Eu, Duchesse de Montpensier; died 1693, aged sixty-six."