Part 19

— A husband always loves a woman such as you, answered Anne of Austria.

— The time may come, my mother, when he will love another woman than me.

— What do you call loving?

— Oh! to think always of someone, to seek always that person.

— Did you notice, said Anne of Austria, that the king did such things?

— No, madame, said the young queen hesitatingly.

— You see well, Marie!

— And yet, my mother, confess that the king neglects me?

— The king, my daughter, belongs to all his kingdom.

— And that is why he no longer belongs to me; that is why I shall see myself, as so many queens have seen themselves, neglected, forgotten, while love, glory, and honors shall be for others. Oh! my mother, the king is so handsome! How many will tell him they love him, how many must love him!

— It is rare that women love a man in the king. But should that happen, which I doubt, wish rather, Marie, that these women truly love your husband. First, the devoted love of the mistress is an element of rapid dissolution for the lover's love; and then, by dint of loving, the mistress loses all power over the lover, of whom she desires neither power nor riches, but love. Wish then that the king love little, and that his mistress love much!

— Oh! my mother, what power is that of a deep love!

— And you say that you are abandoned.

— It is true, it is true, I am talking foolishly... There is a torment nevertheless, my mother, to which I could not resist.

— Which?

— That of a happy choice, that of a household he would make beside our own; that of a family he would find with another woman. Oh! if I ever saw children of the king... I would die of it!

— Marie! Marie! replied the queen mother with a smile, and she took the young queen's hand: remember this word I am going to say to you, and may it forever serve you as consolation: the king cannot have a dauphin without you, and you can have one without him.

At these words, which she accompanied with an expressive burst of laughter, the queen mother left her daughter-in-law to go meet Madame, whose coming into the great cabinet a page had just announced.

Madame had hardly taken the time to undress. She arrived with one of those agitated faces that betray a plan whose execution occupies and whose result troubles.

— I came to see, she said, if Your Majesties had any fatigue from our little journey?

— None, said the queen mother.

— A little, replied Marie-Thérèse.

— I, mesdames, have above all suffered from the annoyance.

— What annoyance? asked Anne of Austria.

— The fatigue the king must have taken in running thus on horseback.

— Pooh! that does good to the king.

— And I myself advised him to, said Marie-Thérèse turning pale.

Madame answered nothing to that, only, one of those smiles that belonged to her alone traced itself upon her lips, without passing over the rest of her face; then, changing at once the turn of the conversation:

— We find Paris wholly similar to the Paris we left: always intrigues, always plots, always coquetries.

— Intrigues!... What intrigues? asked the queen mother.

— Much is said of M. Fouquet and Mme Plessis-Bellière.

— Who thus inscribes herself at number ten thousand? replied the queen mother. But the plots, if you please?

— We have, it appears, some disagreements with Holland.

— How so?

— Monsieur was telling me that story of the medals.

— Ah! cried the young queen, those medals struck in Holland... where one sees a cloud passing over the king's sun. You are wrong to call that a plot, it is an insult.

— As contemptible as the king will despise it, replied the queen mother. But, what were you saying of coquetries? Would you mean to speak of Mme d'Olonne?

— Not at all, not at all; I shall seek nearer to us.

— _Casa de usted_ murmured the queen mother, without moving her lips, into her daughter-in-law's ear.

Madame heard nothing and continued:

— You know the dreadful news?

— Oh! yes, that wound of M. de Guiche.

— And you attribute it, like everyone, to a hunting accident?

— But yes, said the two queens, this time interested.

Madame drew nearer.

— A duel, she said very low.

— Ah! said Anne of Austria severely, in whose ears the word _duel_ sounded ill, proscribed in France since she had reigned there.

— A deplorable duel, which nearly cost, Monsieur, two of his best friends; the king, two good servants.

— Why this duel? asked the young queen, animated by a secret instinct.

— Coquetries, repeated Madame triumphantly. These gentlemen discoursed upon the virtue of a lady: one found that Pallas was little beside her; the other maintained that this lady imitated Venus provoking Mars, and, my faith! these gentlemen fought like Hector and Achilles.

— Venus provoking Mars? said the young queen very low to herself, not daring to probe the allegory.

— Who is this lady? asked Anne of Austria plainly. You said, I believe, a lady of honor?

— Did I say so? said Madame.

— Yes. I even thought I had heard you name her.

— Do you know that a woman of that sort is fatal in a royal house?

— It is Mlle de La Vallière? said the queen mother.

— Good heavens, yes, it is that little ugly one.

— I thought her betrothed to a gentleman who is neither M. de Guiche nor M. de Wardes, I suppose?

— That is possible, madame.

The young queen took up some tapestry, which she undid with an affectation of tranquility, belied by the trembling of her fingers.

— What were you speaking of, Venus and Mars? pursued the queen mother; is there a _Mars_?

— She boasts of it.

— You just said she boasts of it?

— He was the cause of the combat.

— And M. de Guiche upheld the cause of Mars?

— Yes, certainly, as a good servant.

— As a good servant! cried the young queen, forgetting all reserve to let escape her jealousy; servant of whom?

— Mars, replied Madame, being defendable only at the expense of this Venus, M. de Guiche upheld the absolute innocence of Mars, and affirmed doubtless that Venus boasted of it.

— And M. de Wardes, said Anne of Austria tranquilly, spread the rumor that Venus was right.

"Ah! de Wardes," thought Madame, "you will pay dearly for that wound given to the noblest of men."

And she set about attacking de Wardes with all possible ferocity, thus paying the debt of the wounded man and her own, with the certainty that she was for the future bringing about the ruin of her enemy. She said so much of it, that Manicamp, had he been there, would have regretted having so well served his friend, since it resulted in the ruin of that unhappy enemy.

— In all this, said Anne of Austria, I see but one plague, which is this La Vallière.

The young queen resumed her work with absolute coldness.

Madame listened.

— Is not that your opinion? said Anne of Austria to her. Do you not trace back to her the cause of this quarrel and the combat?

Madame answered by a gesture that was no more an affirmation than a negation.

— I do not then too well understand what you told me touching the danger of coquetry, resumed Anne of Austria.

— It is true, hastened to say Madame, that, if the young person had not been coquettish, Mars would not have occupied himself with her.

This word _Mars_ brought a fleeting blush to the cheeks of the young queen; but she nevertheless continued her begun work.

— I will not have, at my Court, men armed thus one against the other, said phlegmatically Anne of Austria. Those manners were perhaps useful in a time when the nobility, divided, had no other rallying point than gallantry. Then women, reigning alone, had the privilege of maintaining the valor of gentlemen by frequent trials. But today, God be praised! there is but one master in France. To this master is due the concourse of all strength and all thought. I will not suffer that one of his servants be taken from my son.

She turned toward the young queen.

— What to do with this La Vallière? said she.

— La Vallière? said the queen appearing surprised. I do not know that name.

And this reply was accompanied by one of those frozen smiles that belong only to royal mouths.

Madame was herself a great princess, great in mind, birth, and pride; however, the weight of this reply crushed her; she was obliged to wait a moment to recover herself.

— She is one of my ladies of honor, replied she with a bow.

— Then, replied Marie-Thérèse in the same tone, it is your affair, my sister... not ours.

— Pardon, resumed Anne of Austria, it is my affair, mine. And I understand very well, pursued she, addressing to Madame a look of intelligence, I understand why Madame told me what she has just told me.

— You, what emanates from you, madame, said the English princess, comes from the mouth of Wisdom.

— By sending this girl back to her country, said Marie-Thérèse with sweetness, one would give her a pension.

— From my purse! cried Madame vivaciously.

— No, no, madame, interrupted Anne of Austria, no scandal, if you please. The king does not like that ladies be spoken ill of. Let all this, if you please, end in the family.

— Madame, you will have the kindness to have this girl sent for here.

— You, my daughter, you will be good enough to return a moment to your apartment.

The prayers of the old queen were orders. Marie-Thérèse rose to return to her apartment, and Madame to have La Vallière called by a page.

Chapter CLXIII — First Quarrel

La Vallière entered the queen mother's rooms, without suspecting in the least that a dangerous plot had been hatched against her.

She believed it concerned service, and the queen mother had never been unkind to her in such circumstance. Besides, not being immediately subject to the authority of Anne of Austria, she could have with her only unofficial relations, to which her own complaisance and the rank of the august princess made a duty for her to give all possible grace.

She advanced therefore toward the queen mother with that placid and sweet smile which formed her principal beauty.

As she did not approach near enough, Anne of Austria made her a sign to come to her chair.

Then Madame re-entered, and, with a perfectly tranquil air, sat near her stepmother, taking up again the work begun by Marie-Thérèse.

La Vallière, instead of the order she expected to receive at once, perceived these preliminaries, and questioned curiously, if not with uneasiness, the faces of the two princesses.

Anne reflected.

Madame kept up an affectation of indifference that would have alarmed less timid souls.

— Mademoiselle, said suddenly the queen mother without thinking to moderate her Spanish accent, which she never failed to do unless she were angry, come hither, that we may talk of you, since everyone talks of you.

— Of me? cried La Vallière turning pale.

— Pretend ignorance, beauty; do you know the duel of M. de Guiche and M. de Wardes?

— Good heavens! madame, the noise of it came yesterday even to me, replied La Vallière joining her hands.

— And you had not felt it beforehand, this noise?

— Why should I have felt it, madame?

— Because two men never fight without motive, and you should know the motives of the two adversaries' animosity.

— I was absolutely ignorant of it, madame.

— It is a defense somewhat banal, that of persistent denial, and, you who are a wit, mademoiselle, you should flee banalities. Something else.

— Good heavens! madame, Your Majesty frightens me with that frozen air. Should I have had the misfortune to incur your displeasure?

Madame began to laugh. La Vallière looked at her with a stupefied air.

Anne resumed:

— My displeasure!... Incur my displeasure! You are not thinking of it, mademoiselle de La Vallière, I must think of people to take them in displeasure. I think of you only because one speaks of you a little too much, and I do not like that one speak of the girls of my Court.

— Your Majesty does me the honor to tell me so, replied La Vallière frightened; but I do not understand in what way one can occupy oneself with me.

— I am going then to tell you. M. de Guiche would have had to defend you.

— Me?

— Yourself. It is of a knight, and beautiful adventurers love that knights lift the lance for them. I hate fields, then I hate above all adventures and... make your profit of it.

La Vallière knelt at the queen's feet, who turned her back on her. She held out her hands to Madame, who laughed in her face.

A sentiment of pride raised her up.

— Mesdames, said she, I have asked what is my crime; Your Majesty must tell it me, and I remark that Your Majesty condemns me before having admitted me to justify myself.

— Eh! cried Anne of Austria, see the fine phrases, madame, see the fine sentiments; it is an infanta that girl, it is one of the aspirants of the great Cyrus... it is a well of tenderness and heroic formulas. One sees well, my fair one, that we nourish our mind in the commerce of crowned heads.

La Vallière felt herself bitten to the heart; she became no longer pale, but white as a lily, and all her strength abandoned her.

— I wished to tell you, interrupted the queen disdainfully, that, if you continue to nourish such sentiments, you will humiliate us, we women, to such a point that we shall be ashamed to figure near you. Become simple, mademoiselle. By the way, what was I told? you are betrothed, I believe?

La Vallière compressed her heart, which a new suffering had just torn.

— Answer then when one speaks to you!

— Yes, madame.

— To a gentleman?

— Yes, madame.

— Who is called?

— M. the vicomte de Bragelonne.

— Do you know that it is a very happy lot for you, mademoiselle, and that, without fortune, without position... without great personal advantages, you should bless Heaven who makes you a future like that.

La Vallière replied nothing.

— Where is this vicomte de Bragelonne? pursued the queen.

— In England, said Madame, where the noise of Mademoiselle's successes will not fail to reach him.

— O heaven! murmured La Vallière distraught.

— Well! mademoiselle, said Anne of Austria, one will have this boy come back, and you will be sent somewhere with him. If you are of a different opinion, girls have bizarre aims, trust in me, I will put you back in the right path: I have done it for girls who were not worth you.

La Vallière no longer heard. The pitiless queen added:

— I will send you alone somewhere where you will reflect maturely. Reflection calms the ardor of the blood; it devours all the illusions of youth. I suppose you have understood me?

— Madame! Madame!

— Not a word.

— Madame, I am innocent of all that Your Majesty can suppose. Madame, see my despair. I love, I respect Your Majesty so much!

— It would be better that you did not respect me, said the queen with a cold irony. It would be better that you were not innocent. Do you by chance imagine that I would content myself with going away, if you had committed the fault?

— Oh! but, madame, you are killing me?

— No comedy, if you please, or I take charge of the ending. Go, return to your room, and may my lesson profit you.

— Madame, said La Vallière to the duchess of Orleans, whose hands she seized, pray for me, you who are so good!

— I! replied the latter with an insulting joy, I good?... Ah! mademoiselle, you do not think a word of it!

And, brusquely, she pushed away the young girl's hand.

The latter, instead of bending, as the two princesses might have expected from her paleness and her tears, suddenly recovered her calm and her dignity; she made a profound reverence and went out.

— Well! said Anne of Austria to Madame, do you believe she will begin again?

— I distrust sweet and patient characters, replied Madame. Nothing is more courageous than a patient heart, nothing is surer of itself than a gentle mind.

— I answer to you that she will think more than once before looking at the god Mars.

— Unless she makes use of his shield, retorted Madame.

A proud look from the queen mother answered this objection, which was not lacking in finesse, and the two ladies, almost sure of their victory, went to rejoin Marie-Thérèse, who awaited them disguising her impatience.

It was then half past six in the evening, and the king had just taken his refreshment. He lost no time; the meal finished, the business terminated, he took Saint-Aignan by the arm and ordered him to conduct him to La Vallière's apartment. The courtier gave a great exclamation.

— Well! what? replied the king; it is a habit to take up, and, to take up a habit, one must begin by some few times.

— But, Sire, the apartment of the girls, here, is a lantern: everyone sees those who enter and those who leave. It seems to me that a pretext... This one, for example...

— Let us see.

— If Your Majesty would wait until Madame were in her own rooms.

— No more pretexts! no more waiting! Enough of these hitches, of these mysteries; I do not see in what the king of France dishonors himself in entertaining a girl of wit. Shamed be he who thinks ill of it!

— Sire, Sire, Your Majesty will pardon me an excess of zeal...

— Speak.

— And the queen?

— It is true! it is true! I wish the queen always respected. Well! still this evening, I will go to Mlle de La Vallière's, and then, that day past, I will take all the pretexts you wish. Tomorrow, we shall seek: this evening, I have no time.

De Saint-Aignan replied not; he descended the stair before the king and crossed the courts with a shame that was not effaced by that signal honor of serving as support to the king.

That is that de Saint-Aignan wished to keep himself wholly preserved in the mind of Madame and of the two queens. That is that he did not wish either to displease Mlle de La Vallière, and that to do so many fine things, it was difficult not to encounter some difficulties.

Now, the windows of the young queen, those of the queen mother, those of Madame herself gave upon the court of the girls. To be seen conducting the king, was to break with three great princesses, with three women of unremovable credit, for the weak bait of an ephemeral mistress's credit.

This unhappy de Saint-Aignan, who had so much courage to protect La Vallière under the quincunxes or in the park of Fontainebleau, no longer felt brave in the broad light: he found a thousand faults in this girl and burned to impart them to the king.

But his torment ended; the courts were crossed. Not a curtain was lifted, not a window opened. The king walked fast: first because of his impatience, then because of the long legs of de Saint-Aignan, who preceded him.

At the door, de Saint-Aignan wished to slip away; the king retained him.

It was a delicacy the courtier would well have done without.

He had to follow Louis into La Vallière's rooms.

At the monarch's arrival, the young girl was finishing drying her eyes; she did it so precipitately, that the king perceived it. He questioned her like an interested lover; he pressed her.

— I have nothing, said she, Sire.

— But, finally, you were weeping.

— Oh! not at all, Sire.

— Look, de Saint-Aignan, am I mistaken?

De Saint-Aignan had to answer; but he was much embarrassed.

— In short, you have red eyes, mademoiselle, said the king.

— The dust of the road, Sire.

— But no, but no, you have not that air of satisfaction which renders you so beautiful and so attractive. You do not look at me.

— Sire!

— What do I say! you avoid my looks.

She turned away indeed.

— But, in the name of Heaven, what is it? asked Louis, whose blood boiled.

— Nothing, again, Sire; and I am ready to show Your Majesty that my mind is as free as she desires.

— Your mind free, when I see you embarrassed at everything, even your gesture! Could someone have wounded you, angered you?

— No, no, Sire.

— Oh! it would have to be declared to me! said the young prince with sparkling eyes.

— But no one, Sire, no one has offended me.

— Then, come, resume that dreamy gaiety or that joyful melancholy that I loved in you this morning; come... I pray you!

— Yes, Sire, yes!

The king stamped his foot.

— That is inexplicable, said he, such a change!

And he looked at de Saint-Aignan, who, he too, perceived well this dreary languor of La Vallière, as also the impatience of the king.

Louis prayed in vain, he vainly exerted himself to combat this fatal disposition, the young girl was broken; the very aspect of death would not have roused her from her torpor.

The king saw in this negative facility a displeasing mystery; he began to look around him with a suspicious air.

Justly there was in La Vallière's chamber a miniature portrait of Athos.

The king saw this portrait which much resembled Bragelonne; for it had been made during the count's youth.

He fixed upon this painting menacing looks.

La Vallière, in the state of oppression wherein she found herself and a hundred leagues, besides, from thinking of this painting, could not guess the king's preoccupation.

And yet the king had thrown himself into a terrible memory which, more than once, had preoccupied his mind, but which he had always dismissed.

He recalled that intimacy of the two young people since their birth.

He recalled the betrothal which had been the consequence.

He recalled that Athos had come to ask him for La Vallière's hand for Raoul.

He figured that, on her return to Paris, La Vallière had found certain news from London, and that this news had counterbalanced the influence that, he, had been able to take over her.

Almost at once he felt himself stung at the temples by the fierce gadfly called jealousy.

He questioned again with bitterness.

La Vallière could not answer: she must tell all, she must accuse the queen, she must accuse Madame.

It was an open struggle to sustain with two great and powerful princesses.

It seemed to her first that, doing nothing to hide what passed in her before the king, the king must read in her heart through her silence.

That, if he truly loved her, he must understand all, guess all.

What then was sympathy, if not the divine flame which must illuminate the heart, and dispense true lovers from speech?

She was silent then, contenting herself with sighing, weeping, hiding her head in her hands.

These sighs, these tears, which had first softened, then frightened Louis XIV, irritated him now.

He could not support opposition, no more the opposition of sighs and tears than any other opposition.

All his words became sour, pressing, aggressive.

It was a new pain joined to the pains of the young girl.

She drew, from what she regarded as an injustice on the part of her lover, the strength to resist not only others, but that one likewise.

The king began to accuse directly.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”