QUEEN MAINTENON.

IT is the winter of 1685. The night is dark and starless. Fast falling snow makes the air thick and covers the ground as with a white mantle. An icy blast is blowing, chilling alike to man and beast. As eleven o'clock strikes, the Archbishop of Paris leaves his palace, spite of the inclement weather. He is alone in his coach. Midnight is past when he draws up outside the great gates of Versailles. These open silently. He drives onward, traversing the vast courtyard, passing the equestrian statue of Louis XIV., until he reaches the Cour de Marbre, between the two pavilions of the central portion of the chÂteau. Here the outer portal at the foot of the grand staircase is ajar. Bontemps, Governor of the Palace of Versailles, valet, confidant, and purveyor generally to the wants of his Majesty, stands behind it awaiting the Archbishop. He holds a light, which he carefully shades with his hand. Monseigneur de Harlay, Archbishop, descends from his coach shivering all over. His teeth chatter in his head, not only from the cold which is excessive, but from apprehension of what he is about to engage in. Bontemps precedes him up the stairs, holding the light in his hand. They traverse whole suites of rooms, a spacious hall, a long gallery, and many corridors. No word is spoken, every soul is asleep, and it is urgent they should remain so. Once within the King's apartments all is light, warmth, and luxury. The well-nigh frozen dignitary revives. Before him is the King, dignified, composed, and cheerful. With him are the Marquis de Montchevreuil and the Chevalier de Forbin, as witnesses; PÈre la Chaise is also there to assist the Archbishop. An altar is dressed in the centre of the room. As soon as his Majesty has saluted Monseigneur de Harlay, Bontemps is despatched to fetch Madame de Maintenon. She loses no time in appearing. The marriage rites are performed by PÈre la Chaise, confessor to the King; the benediction is given by the Archbishop.

The marriage is to be secret; but Louis XIV. henceforth addresses her as "Madame." He receives his Ministers in her saloon; the Marquis de Maintenon the while sitting upon a fauteuil in his presence. These are royal honours. Monseigneur le Dauphin and the princes of the blood never forgive the marriage. The contempt and hatred they feel towards Madame de Maintenon cannot be concealed. As favourite they had tolerated her; as wife they rebel against her. Yet her will is law. The Duc de Maine and the Duc and Duchesse de Bourgogne, son and daughter-in-law to Monseigneur, are the only exceptions.

We are again at Choisy. Every window is a blaze of light, the terraced garden flashes with millions of coloured lamps. The Dauphin and his consort, the princes and princesses, courtiers, singers, actors, and poets, fill the foreground. Brocade and satin sweep the terraces; cocked hats and feathers, ribbons, lace, plumes, jewels, orders, wave and glitter. There is the sound of laughter and mad jest—joyous music and voluptuous feasting, petit soupers and masked balls, theatricals and concerts.

Long flights of marble stairs descend through bosky groves, sweet with the scent of lilac and honeysuckles, to the Seine, on whose grassy banks, illuminated by torches and bonfires, a flotilla of boats are moored under the overhanging woods. If the essence of all the fÊtes given in France was concentrated, the result would be Choisy before the Revolution. In the hands of Monseigneur it is a miniature court, rivalling what Versailles was; a court where youth, joy, and beauty reign supreme. Louis, now old, desires that all the world should be old likewise—fast, pray, confess, and hear sermons like himself. Choisy is a scandal to him. The Dauphin receives orders to quit, and take up his abode at Meudon. Monseigneur, a short, stout, thick-set man, with a fair complexion, and what would have been handsome features had his nose not been broken, appears before Madame de Maintenon, the real ruler of France. She is seated in her apartments, working as usual at her tapestry. She does not rise at his entrance, and her aspect is severe and repellant.

"Madame," says the Dauphin, seating himself at a gesture she makes, "can you explain to me what motive has induced his Majesty to banish me from my favourite residence at Choisy?"

Madame de Maintenon does not raise her eyes from her work. "Banishment you call it, Monseigneur; you mistake the term. Not banishment, simply a change of abode designed for your good, by his Majesty, your august father."

"For my good? surely I am of an age to judge for myself! If I cannot live where I please, I am under arrest. I am not aware in what I have merited the royal displeasure."

"Observe, Monseigneur le Dauphin," answers the Marquise, fixing her black eyes upon him, "the King feels no displeasure; on the contrary, he desires your more constant presence at his Court, near his person." The Marquise spoke these words with special emphasis.

"Madame, I am most grateful for the amiable manner in which you express his Majesty's flattering wish, but might not some plan be found to unite my presence at Court with my residence at Choisy?"

"Impossible, your highness. In a monarchy there can be but one sovereign. The Court must surround that sovereign. Now, permit me to observe, there are two courts, and something like two sovereigns."

"I am not conscious, madame," replies the Dauphin, with dignity, "what action of my life justifies such an accusation. If his Majesty desires to reprimand me, as a father, I ask the favour of hearing it from his own lips."

"Monseigneur," replies Madame de Maintenon, with affected humility, "it is his Majesty who speaks by my voice. I am less than nothing other than through him. If you desire to know what causes his displeasure, it is that in the magnificent fÊtes you give at Choisy he observes that one most important element of society is omitted—an element his Majesty considers essential."

"What element, madame?"

"That of the Church, your Highness."

The Dauphin is suddenly convulsed with a fit of violent laughter. He takes a hasty leave.

"The Church at Choisy, ma foi!" he says aloud when he has safely passed the anteroom and is well beyond hearing. "My old master Bossuet, and Bourdaloue, and the Versailles Jesuits assisting at midnight fÊtes at Choisy—what a notion! I must tell this to Mademoiselle Choin. How she will laugh!"

Charlotte de BaviÈre, second wife of Philippe d'OrlÉans, brother of the King, hated the "old woman," as she called Madame de Maintenon. She saw through her and despised her. Madame de Maintenon returned her animosity with interest, but she dared not provoke her. There was something about this frank, downright German princess that was not to be trifled with. Whatever her eccentricities might be, they were respected; she was left in peace to drink as much beer and to eat as many saucissons as the peculiarity of her constitution required.

In person she was actually repulsive; her pride was a by-word and a jest; but she was a faithful friend and a true wife, and continued to live with her heartless and effeminate husband, Monsieur, in peace.

On her son, the Duc de Chartres, afterwards the Regent OrlÉans, she doted. In her eyes he was perfect. She was either blind or indifferent to his vices. But even he was not exempt from the violence of her temper. When she was told that he had consented to a marriage with Mademoiselle de Blois, daughter of Madame de Montespan, she struck him in the face. Then she flew to the King. The doors of the royal bedchamber are closed by the attendant Swiss, but the angry voices of Charlotte (Madame) and Louis in angry altercation, penetrate into the gallery of the Œil de Boeuf, where the Court awaits the moment of the royal lever.

"Sire," Madame is heard to say in her guttural German-French accent, "I am come to forbid the marriage of my son with Mademoiselle de Blois."

"How, my sister?" replies the full, deep voice of the King, that voice which usually created so profound an impression on the nerves of those whom he addressed.

"Yes, to forbid it. Had your Majesty desired an alliance between my son and a daughter of your consort, Maria Theresa, I should have considered it my duty to submit."

"Oh!" exclaims the King in a loud voice, and quick steps are heard pacing up and down the room, "you would have condescended to accept a princess-royal for your daughter-in-law."

"Certainly, Sire; but because I committed a mÉsalliance myself in marrying your brother, Philippe de OrlÉans——"

"Pardieu! Madame," breaks in the King. "Do you talk of a mÉsalliance with a grandson of Henry the Great?"

"Certainly I do, your Majesty. What was Henry the Great, but an obscure Prince of BÉarn, a beggarly little State among the valleys of the Pyrenees? Does your Majesty think that the hundred quarterings of my escutcheon will gain lustre by the arms of Bourbon?"

Louis is heard to stamp on the floor. "Madame," he cries, so loud that his words echo into every corner of the Œil de Boeuf, "Madame, you forget yourself. How dare you come here to insult me?"

"Sire, I come here to tell you the truth. My son, the Duc de Chartres, has forgotten himself by listening for one instant to your proposal. With my own hand I have chastised him as he deserves. I do not forget myself, whatever others may do. Philippe is too good for any princess in Europe. The blood in his veins is that of my ancestors—the Princes Palatine of the Rhine. We laugh at your modern houses—we laugh! Philippe is the best man in your Court. He knows everything—painting, music, poetry, science. None of you can understand him. You are too ignorant."

"Madame," the King is heard to say, "have a care—you are going too far!"

"No, my brother, I have not gone far enough," rejoins Madame. "You have forgotten the siege of Mons, where he fought under your own eyes—also Steinkerque and Nerwinde. It is your fault that Philippe does not command your armies. He is equal to it. Who would not have such a husband? Sire, my son, the Duc de Chartres, shall never wed with your bastard!"

Again Louis is heard to stamp upon the floor. Then, in a voice hoarse with rage, he replies, "Madame, I shall hold my brother responsible for your insolence."

"Why have you provoked it, then?" is the reply in a calmer tone. Charlotte de BaviÈre has evidently relieved her own violence by exciting that of the King. "I have a right to resist such a disgraceful proposal. Withdraw your marriage, and I am again your good sister and friend as heretofore."

"We shall see, Madame, we shall see!" shouts the King, whose usual courtesy towards women is not proof against such an attack.

"Yes, Sire, we shall see. No person on earth shall make me sanction a blot on my name. My opposition shall not be only in words. The Duc de Chartres is my only son. I will stop the marriage in your presence. I will stop it at the altar of the chapel-royal."

"Madame, your pride has turned your head. But your husband, my brother, shall obey me."

"Your brother, Sire, will, I know, in this, as in all else, be advised by me. I can defend the honour of his house much better than he can himself, and he knows it. Your brother will do his duty, I shall do mine. I wish your Majesty good-day."

The sound of the King's cane is audible, striking heavily on the floor as he strides up and down the room. The door of his bedchamber opens; Charlotte de BaviÈre, crimson in the face, appears. She calls her people together, and hastily departs, followed by the wondering glances of the courtiers, standing in groups about the Œil de Boeuf.

The King, fearing that there was no chance of overcoming the opposition of Madame, either by persuasions or by threats, consulted Madam de Maintenon. With characteristic duplicity, she advised that what could not be done openly, must be brought about by stratagem. She sent for the AbbÉ Dubois, the Âme damnÉe of the young Duke, his tutor and his companion, and by promises of money and speedy preferment she completely made him her own. Dubois promised to hurry on the marriage with or without the consent of Madame. The Duke, who loved his mother, and respected her scruples, only yielded when Dubois artfully presented to him the certain loss of all influence, as well as the personal animosity of the King, if he refused.

Philippe d'OrlÉans met Mademoiselle de Blois in the apartment of Madame de Maintenon. The marriage took place at Versailles.

Madame was furious at what she termed her "dishonour." She wept, abused, menaced, and scolded by turns. But finding that there was no redress, that the marriage was legal, and that further opposition might arouse the vengeance of the King, she gradually cooled down and received her new daughter-in-law with tolerable civility; particularly as the marriage with Mademoiselle de Blois continued the possession of the Palais Royal, with all its pictures, sculptures, and valuables, in the OrlÉans family, a gift which somewhat served to gild the bitter pill she was called on to swallow.

This marriage did not improve the Duke's conduct or character. He was galled by what he had been forced to do; his temper was soured; his excesses increased. Nor was the Duchess of a disposition to endear herself to any husband. Imperious, luxurious, and bitter-tongued, she always forgot that her mother, Madame de Montespan, was not the wife of her father, and treated the Duke as her inferior. He bore her extravagant pride, and listened to her harangues, reproaches, and taunts (expressed with real eloquence) in silence. Sometimes he called her Madame Lucifer.

With such parents their children grew up in habits of licentiousness, only equalled by the imperial ladies of Old Rome.

The Duchesse de Berry—the eldest of the Regent's daughters—kept her Court at the Luxembourg with regal pomp. She received embassadors seated on a throne, surmounted by a canopy sprinkled by the lilies of France. But she did not think it beneath her dignity to do the honours of certain petits soupers at the Palais Royal—too well known to need further mention here.

Her sister, Mademoiselle de Valois, was as remarkable for her beauty as for her lack of virtue.

Mademoiselle d'OrlÉans—third daughter of the Regent—was, if possible, more wanton than her sisters. To the eternal disgrace of the Church she was elected Abbess of Chelles. "Tel pÈre, tel fils," says the proverb.