The Duchess of Orleans sat weeping in her cabinet, and yet she had been several times reminded by her tire-women that monsieur awaited her in the drawing-room. She held in her hand a letter—the apparent cause of her unwillingness to move.

"It has terminated as I feared," thought she; "her short-lived happiness has been purchased with her life. To think that her relentless foe should have had no mercy upon her youth and beauty! And so it is—to the good are apportioned tribulation and trials—to the wicked, prosperity and long life! God is merciful, and allows to those who are destined to burn in hell their short season of triumph on earth. But I, who am no saint, will avenge my dear child's murder, by exposing its instigators to public scorn. My poor, darling Laura! God only knows how I am to bring it about, but He will surely prompt the right words at the right moment. And now to discharge the tiresome duties of the sacrifice I made to the shameless exaction of Louis XIV.! Now for the act that befouls the escutcheon of France with the blood of De Montespan's bastard!"

She folded her letter, and, putting it in her bosom, called with her stentorian lungs, for Katharina.

The tire-woman, who had been anxiously awaiting the summons, appeared immediately, and approached her mistress, in great haste to commence.

"Katharina," began the duchess, "do not be provoked if I reject the magnificent attire you have prepared for me to-night. I cannot wear it."

Katharina drew back in terror. "So your royal highness does not intend to appear at court to-night?"

"I intend to appear there, because I am compelled to do so," returned the duchess; "but I do not know that it is incumbent upon me to be as gay as a peacock, on the occasion of my poor Philip's betrothal to that girl of De Montespan's. To me it is more like a funeral than a festival, so you may get out my suit of court mourning. The skirt of black velvet, the train and head-dress of purple."

"Is the Empress of Austria dead, that your royal highness should wear purple?" asked Katharina. [Footnote: At the court of Louis XIV., purple velvet was worn in the deepest mourning only.]

"A personage of more consequence to me than the Empress of Austria is dead—an angel has taken her flight to heaven, and no royal princess can replace her here below. Hush, Kathi—you need not open your mouth to remonstrate, for my purple mourning I will wear, and nobody in France shall hinder me."

Katharina knew this so well, that she inclined her head, and went off in search of the costume, which, as Elizabeth-Charlotte never lingered before her looking-glass, was donned in less than a quarter of an hour. She returned to her cabinet, and gave a quick glance at her image, as she passed before a large Venetian mirror, that reached from floor to ceiling. She smiled, and began an apostrophe to herself, after the following manner:

"You are unquestionably a homely woman; and, in the finery that decks royalty, you look somewhat like the scarecrows I have seen in gardens at home. But, soberly clad as you are at this moment, you are not an unsightly or undignified woman, nor would my poor murdered darling despise me, were she to see me now. Ah, Laura! would that the battle of life were over for me, as it is for thee! For the world has apportioned to me much vexation, but little happiness."

She turned away from the mirror, with a sigh. "Well, I may not mourn any longer. I must put on my court-face, and sing with old Luther:"

"It must be so,
That pain and woe
Will ever follow sin;
Then go your ways—"

The duchess was singing out this doggerel in a rough, loud contralto, when her chamberlain appeared at the door, and announced that his royal highness was waiting for her to descend.

"Tell monsieur not to let me detain him," replied she. "I will be escorted to the Louvre by the Duke de Chartres. Hey, Kathi! come with my wrappings!"

Kathi had just enveloped her highness's stout, robust form in a cloak of purple velvet, when the little duke came skipping into the room.

"Here I am, chere maman," cried he; "here is Cupid, ready to attend on Venus."

The duchess replied with a glance of displeasure, and took his arm. As they were crossing the corridor, she said: "Cupid was a fractious and rebellious boy, and I remember that Venus had many a time to box his ears for his misbehavior. You are quite right to liken yourself to Cupid, for you are just as contrary as he—"

"And just as handsome?" asked the duke, coaxingly.

The duchess tried to suppress a smile. "You are a little puppy," said she; "and if I resemble Venus in no other way, I shall imitate her maternal corrections, and let you feel the weight of my hand, if you provoke me, sir." And so saying, she tumbled herself into the coach.

"I have already felt its weight," sighed the young duke, "and a right heavy hand it is, when it is lifted to chastise."

"Then take care not to deserve its chastisements. But now, Philip, listen to me, and be serious. It is understood between us, that you refuse to sign the contract—that you avow loudly your aversion to marriage in general, and to Mademoiselle de Blois in particular; and that you throw yourself at the feet of the king, and ask for two years' delay."

"Oh, yes, maman, yes, of course," replied Philip, hurriedly. "I understand it all perfectly. Ah, here we are at the Louvre! Allow me to assist you to alight."

And the duke, vastly pleased that the maternal lecture was at an end, leaped from the coach, and escorted his mother to the palace.

The royal family, with the nobles and dignitaries that were to witness the signing of the contract, were in the king's cabinet. The court awaited them in one of the magnificent rooms of state.

On a marble slab, supported by three gilded dolphins, lay a long roll of parchment, and close by was an inkstand of gold, set with sapphires and diamonds. The king was in an adjoining apartment, anxiously waiting the arrival of the Duchess of Orleans and the bridegroom-elect.

"Methinks," said Louis to monsieur, "that madame makes me wait."

As these words were uttered with great severity, the duke was abashed, and scarcely knew what he way saying. "Your majesty," stammered he, "you know how—may I entreat of you—"

"Her royal highness the Duchess of Orleans, and the Duke de
Chartres," cried the gentleman usher.

Louis rose from his arm-chair, and advanced to greet his eccentric sister-in-law. Suddenly he drew back, and looked like a Jupiter Tonans.

"Madame," said he, eying the duchess from head to foot—from her purple feathers to the very edge of her long purple-velvet train— "madame, what means this extraordinary attire? Have you forgotten, in one of your fits of absence, that you were invited, not to a funeral, but to a betrothal?"

"Sire," replied the undismayed duchess, "I am not subject to fits of absence; but I beg to apologize for my dress. It is appropriate to my feelings, for I have just experienced a most painful loss."

"What member of your family is dead?" asked his majesty.

"Not a member of my family, but a beloved friend, has been foully murdered."

"Murdered!" echoed Louis. "Who has been murdered!"

"Sire, I will tell you, but Monsieur Louvois must be by to hear the recital."

Monsieur Louvois was summoned, and while awaiting his arrival, Louis expressed a wish that the duchess would make her story as short as possible; he was anxious to have this ceremony over.

"Sire, I shall do my best," was the reply.—"Ah," continued Elizabeth-Charlotte, "here is Monsieur Louvois—Perhaps he can tell your majesty why I am in mourning."

"I—I" said Louvois, with a defiant stare at his enemy. "I have not the honor of being in the secrets of madame."

"But she has the misfortune to be in yours," cried the duchess.

"Sire, a few years ago, there appeared at your majesty's court a young girl of extraordinary beauty and worth. She was one of my maids of honor, and was as dear to me as my own child. Lovely, innocent, and virtuous, as she was, she was an object of aversion to her own kindred. She became ardently attached to a youth of rank equal—I mean to say, superior to hers, against whom her relatives entertained a prejudice that manifested itself by every species of persecution. There could be no reasonable objection to the alliance, but the lovers knowing that, for very hatred of them both, the maiden's father would oppose their union, agreed to be married in secret. They were betrayed, and you will scarcely believe me, your majesty, when I tell you that the poor girl's own father and brother deceived her by forged letters, and so arranged matters that they came by night, and, substituting a man whom she detested, for her lover, they obtained her signature to a fraudulent marriage."

"Her father did his duty," interrupted Louvois. "He had a right to select her husband, and exercised his right. I hope that his majesty is of the same opinion."

"Madame," said the king, taking no notice of Louvois' remark, "pray continue your narrative."

"Your majesty, the miserable girl refused ever to acknowledge the marriage. The man they had forced upon her imprisoned her for years, giving out to the world that she was insane, but holding out to her a promise of release, whenever she would recognize him as her husband. She never would—she never did."

"But her lover—what was he about all this time?" asked Louis.

"He believed himself forgotten, nor could he discover whither his betrothed had been conveyed by her tyrant. Finally by means that seem almost miraculous, she effected her escape, and joined him; and, believing herself to be his spouse before God, they lived together as husband and wife."

"I should have regarded them as such," was the remark of the king. "I hope that her unprincipled relatives did not seek to repeat their sacrilege by any attempt to part her from him to whom she had veritably plighted her faith."

Louvois could not contain himself. "Your majesty," cried he, "the sacrilege was hers and not her father's. She was legally married, and the tie that bound her to her lover was a crime!"

Louis contemplated his own illegitimate children, there present, and Louvois' words roused his ire. "Sir," said he, "you mistake human prejudices for principles. How can you presume to contend for the sanctity of an infamous falsehood like that of a marriage ceremony fraudulently performed?"

"Thanks, your majesty, thanks for those generous words," exclaimed the duchess, joyfully. "They rehabilitate the memory of my darling, who was as pure and chaste as she was constant and loving. In her case, endurance of the world's contumely was heroism. She felt it to be unjust, but bore it for the sake of her lover, and was happy. Her relatives, however, urged, by their hatred of the poor child, made use of her demented husband to avenge what they pleased to term their outraged honor. They armed him with dagger and poison, and her own brother brought him to the town where she was living, and led him to her villa."

"What an unnatural and wicked brother," exclaimed the young Duke of
Maine, who had edged himself in to listen.

The duchess gave him a grateful smile, and continued her story:

"The murderer made an attempt to poison his rival. He was recognized under his disguise by his wife, who darted forward to save her lover's life. As she did so, the assassin drew from his bosom a poniard and stabbed her to the heart,"

"Horrible!" was the exclamation of all the bystanders.

"Sire." resumed the duchess, "the woman so foully murdered by the tool of her father and her brother,—she, whom I loved so dearly, and whom your majesty's self honored by your attention, was Laura Bonaletta—the daughter of Monsieur Louvois, and the sister of his depraved son—Barbesieur."

"The Marchioness Strozzi!" cried the king, turning his indignant eyes upon Louvois, who was vainly trying to effect a retreat.

"Sir," said Louis, "I hope you will be able to disprove this dreadful charge, and convince her royal highness that she has been misinformed."

"Sire, I am not aware that any guilt attaches to my actions as a father. I married my daughter to the man whom I chose should be her husband, and I hastened the marriage that I might save her from the artful snare which Prince Eugene was laying for her large fortune."

"Sire," cried the duchess, "the whole world knows Prince Eugene to be above mercenary considerations, and it also knows that had Monsieur Louvois not driven him away from France, he would not now be the most distinguished officer in the army of a foreign prince."

"Very true," returned the king.—"Louvois never showed himself to have less penetration than when he undervalued the genius of Prince Eugene. But this blunder we can pardon, so he but clear himself of participation in the assassination of his daughter."

"That I can easily do, your majesty," replied Louvois. "I knew nothing whatever of the attempt on Prince Eugene's life."

"Then how comes it that this intercepted letter from your own hand speaks so knowingly of it to your son?—Sire," continued the duchess, "this letter was sent to me by Victor Amadeus. The courier to whom it had been confided was arrested by a vidette of the duke's, and the letter forwarded to his highness. From my step- daughter, the Duchess of Savoy, I hold my information; and it was imparted to me at her husband's desire, that I might transmit it to your majesty, and Louis XIV. might hear how Louvois vanquishes the heroes that are opposed to him in war. Sire, not only your friends, but your enemies, know that you hold such warfare in abhorrence."

"I do, indeed," cried Louis, "and I thank not only Victor Amadeus, madame, but yourself, who have not shrunk from the ungrateful duty of accusing a man whom many another would have feared, because he was high in my estimation. I thank you that you have given me occasion to vindicate my honor from the foul blot which this man would have cast upon it. I say nothing of his cruelty to his unhappy daughter, for that I leave to his Maker. But, as regards the attempt on the life of Prince Eugene, it shall be investigated;—and woe to him, should he be inculpated by the examination of these papers!— Go, sir, and until your fame is cleared, consider yourself a prisoner in your own house."

Pale and trembling, Louvois retreated from the royal presence. Around the door of the cabinet were groups of high-born dames and titled lords, who all drew back to let him pass. No one wished to breathe the atmosphere that was tainted by the presence of a suspected murderer; and the rumor of his disgrace spread so rapidly through the palace, that it reached the room where the court was assembled, and every man there turned his back upon the favorite who, an hour before, had been greeted with courtesy and respect by the proudest nobles in the land.

The king's eyes followed the bowed figure of his fallen minister until it passed out of sight; then, as if nothing had happened, he smilingly addressed the Duchess of Orleans:

"Madame, will you take the bride by the hand? I, myself, will escort the bridegroom."

Elizabeth-Charlotte, who, in her sorrow for the tragical death of Laura, had forgotten the occasion of her coming, gave a sudden start, and her heart died within her. She turned her sharp eyes with a searching look upon the Duke de Chartres, hoping for some significant glance that would reassure her as to his intentions. But the young duke's eyes were turned another way: he was following the master of ceremonies, and making a profound inclination before the king.

Madame dared no longer hesitate: she gave her hand to Mademoiselle de Blois, and led her forward to the table where lay the dreaded document.

At a signal from the king, the keeper of the seal advanced, and, taking up the parchment, read the marriage contract of his royal highness the Duke de Chartres with Mademoiselle de Blois. The duke's marriage with the king's daughter entitled him to the grandes entries du cabinet, and the entrees de derriere,—privileges highly prized by the members of the royal family. The contract also recognized Mademoiselle de Blois as a daughter of France, and gave her a dowry of two millions of livres, several large estates, and a complete parure of costly diamonds.

With the exception of madame, everybody was enraptured with the royal munificence. Again she tried to meet her son's eyes, but they were steadfastly fixed upon the hand of the king who had signed the contract, and was in the act of placing it before his daughter.

Mademoiselle de Blois scribbled her name under that of her father, and passed the pen over to the bridegroom. The decisive moment was at hand. With fast-throbbing heart, the duchess bent forward to hear her son's rejection of this insulting mesalliance, when lo! that son, with a placid smile, accepted the pen, and signed!

A cry had well-nigh burst from his mother's lips, as, with every show of respect, he presented her the pen. Speechless with anger, she advanced her hand, but it was not to take the instrument of her humiliation: it was to administer to her rebellious son a box on the ear which resounded like a pistol-shot through the apartment, and created considerable astonishment among the aristocratic guests therein assembled. [Footnote: Historical.—See "Letters of the Duchess of Orleans to the Princess of Wales."]

The young duke uttered a howl, and, rubbing his cheek, jumped behind the hooped dress of his bride-elect.

"Madame!" exclaimed the king, "what means this violence?"

"Your majesty, I was killing a fly that had lit upon Philip's cheek."

"It must be a robust fly, if it is not crushed to atoms," replied the king, much amused.

The court, unable to withstand their merriment, burst into out— simultaneous shout of laughter, under cover—of which Elizabeth- Charlotte, with tearful eyes, signed the fatal document which mingled the noble blood of Orleans with the muddy stream of illegitimacy.