Part 2
But the king, with a quick reflection, followed him, and with such speed that, although Malicorne already had half the staircases' lead, he arrived at the chamber at the same time as he.
He then saw, through the door left ajar behind Malicorne, La Vallière sprawled in an armchair, and at the other corner Montalais, who was combing her hair, in a dressing gown, standing before a large mirror and parleying all the while with Malicorne.
The king abruptly opened the door and entered.
Montalais uttered a cry at the noise the door made, and, recognizing the king, she slipped away.
At this sight, La Vallière, for her part, started up like a galvanized corpse and fell back onto her chair.
The king slowly advanced toward her.
“You wish an audience, mademoiselle,” he said to her with coldness, “here I am ready to hear you. Speak.”
De Saint-Aignan, faithful to his role of deaf, blind, and mute, de Saint-Aignan had placed himself, he, in a door corner, upon a stool that chance had procured for him most expressly.
Sheltered under the tapestry that served as a door curtain, leaning against the wall itself, he thus listened without being seen, resigning himself to the role of a good watchdog who waits and watches without ever troubling his master. La Vallière, struck with terror at the sight of the irritated king, rose a second time, and, remaining in a humble and supplicating posture:
“Sire,” she stammered, “forgive me.”
“Why, mademoiselle, what would you have me forgive you?” asked Louis XIV.
“Sire, I have committed a great fault, more than a great fault, a great crime.”
“You?”
“Sire, I have offended Your Majesty.”
“Not in the least,” answered Louis XIV.
“Sire, I beseech you, do not keep toward me that terrible gravity which betrays the very legitimate anger of the king. I feel that I have offended you, Sire; but I need to explain to you how I did not offend you of my own free will.”
“And first, mademoiselle,” said the king, “in what way would you have offended me? I do not see it. Is it by a young girl’s jest, a most innocent jest? You have railed at a credulous young man: that is most natural; any other woman in your place would have done what you have done.”
“Oh! Your Majesty crushes me with those words.”
“And why so?”
“Because, if the jest had come from me, it would not have been innocent.”
“Finally, mademoiselle,” resumed the king, “is that all you had to say to me in asking for an audience?”
And the king took almost a step backward.
Then La Vallière, with a brief and broken voice, with eyes dried by the fire of tears, took in her turn a step toward the king.
“Your Majesty heard everything?” said she.
“Everything, what?”
“Everything that was said by me at the royal oak?”
“I did not lose a single word of it, mademoiselle.”
“And Your Majesty, when it had heard me, could believe that I had abused its credulity.”
“Yes, credulity, that is it, you have said the word.”
“And Your Majesty did not suspect that a poor girl like me may sometimes be forced to submit to the will of others?”
“Pardon, but I shall never understand that she whose will seemed to express itself so freely under the royal oak should let herself be influenced to that degree by the will of others.”
“Oh! but the threat, Sire!”
“The threat!... Who threatened you? who dared threaten you?”
“Those who have the right to do so, Sire.”
“I acknowledge in no one the right of threat in my kingdom.”
“Forgive me, Sire, there are near Your Majesty itself persons high enough placed to have or to believe themselves to have the right to ruin a young girl without future, without fortune, and having only her reputation.”
“And how to ruin her?”
“By making her lose that reputation through a shameful expulsion.”
“Oh! mademoiselle,” said the king with deep bitterness, “I am very fond of those who excuse themselves without incriminating others.”
“Sire!”
“Yes, and it is painful to me, I confess, to see that an easy justification, such as yours might be, should come to complicate itself before me with a web of reproaches and imputations.”
“Which you then give no credit to?” cried La Vallière.
The king kept silent.
“Oh! say it then!” repeated La Vallière with vehemence.
“I regret to confess it to you,” repeated the king, bowing with coldness.
The young girl uttered a deep exclamation, and, striking her hands one against the other:
“So you do not believe me?” said she.
The king answered nothing.
The features of La Vallière altered at that silence.
“So you suppose that I, I!” said she, “wove this ridiculous, this infamous plot to play thus imprudently upon Your Majesty?”
“Why, my God! it is neither ridiculous nor infamous,” said the king; “it is not even a plot: it is a more or less pleasant raillery, that is all.”
“Oh!” murmured the despairing young girl, “the king does not believe me, the king will not believe me.”
“But no, I will not believe you.”
“My God! my God!”
“Listen: what more natural, indeed? The king follows me, listens to me, watches me; the king perhaps wishes to amuse himself at my expense, let us amuse ourselves at his, and, as the king is a man of heart, let us take him by the heart.
La Vallière hid her head in her hands, stifling a sob. The king continued mercilessly; he avenged himself upon the poor victim for all that he had suffered.
“Let us suppose then this fable that I love him and that I have distinguished him. The king is so naive and so proud at once, that he will believe me, and then we shall go relate this naivety of the king, and we shall laugh.
“Oh!” cried La Vallière, “to think that, to think that, is awful!”
“And,” pursued the king, “that is not all: if this proud prince comes to take the jest seriously, if he has the imprudence to testify publicly something like joy at it, well! before the whole court, the king will be humiliated; now, that will be, one day, a charming tale to tell my lover, a portion of dowry to bring my husband, this adventure of a king fooled by a malicious young girl.”
“Sire!” cried La Vallière, distraught, delirious, “not a word more, I beg you; do you not see that you are killing me?”
“Oh! raillery,” murmured the king, who nevertheless began to be moved.
La Vallière fell to her knees, and that so roughly, that her knees resounded upon the parquet.
Then, joining her hands:
“Sire,” said she, “I prefer shame to betrayal.”
“What are you doing?” asked the king, but without making a move to raise the young girl.
“Sire, when I shall have sacrificed to you my honor and my reason, you will perhaps believe in my loyalty. The account that was given you at Madame’s and by Madame is a lie; what I said under the great oak...
“Well?”
“That alone, that was the truth.”
“Mademoiselle!” cried the king.
“Sire,” cried La Vallière, carried away by the violence of her feelings, “Sire, though I should die of shame upon this spot where my two knees are rooted, I will repeat it to you until my voice fails me: I said that I loved you... well! I love you!
“You?”
“I love you, Sire, since the day I saw you, since at Blois, where I languished, your royal glance fell upon me, luminous and quickening; I love you! Sire. It is a crime of lèse-majesty, I know it, that a poor girl like me should love her king and tell him so. Punish me for this boldness, despise me for this imprudence; but never say, but never believe that I railed at you, that I betrayed you. I am of a blood faithful to royalty, Sire; and I love... I love my king!... Oh! I am dying!”
And suddenly, exhausted of strength, of voice, of breath, she fell doubled over, like that flower of which Virgil speaks and which the reaper’s sickle has touched.
The king, at these words, at this vehement supplication, had kept neither rancor nor doubt; his whole heart had opened to the ardent breath of that love which spoke so noble and so courageous a language.
So, when he heard the passionate avowal of that love, he weakened, and veiled his face in his two hands.
But, when he felt La Vallière’s hands clutching his, when the warm pressure of the loving young girl had won to his arteries, he blazed in his turn, and, seizing La Vallière bodily, he raised her and pressed her to his heart.
But she, dying, letting her wavering head fall upon his shoulders, lived no more.
Then the king, frightened, called de Saint-Aignan.
De Saint-Aignan, who had pushed discretion to the point of remaining immobile in his corner, feigning to wipe away a tear, ran at this call of the king.
Then he helped Louis seat the young girl in an armchair, chafed her hands, sprinkled her with Hungary-water queen’s essence, repeating to her:
“Mademoiselle, come, mademoiselle, it is over, the king believes you, the king forgives you. There, there! take care, you are going to move the king too violently, mademoiselle; His Majesty is sensitive, His Majesty has a heart. Ah! the devil! mademoiselle, pay heed, the king is very pale.”
Indeed, the king was visibly growing pale.
As for La Vallière, she did not stir.
“Mademoiselle! mademoiselle! in truth,” de Saint-Aignan continued, “come back to yourself, I pray you, I beseech you, it is time; think of one thing, which is that if the king were to faint, I should be obliged to call his physician. Ah! what an extremity, my God! Mademoiselle, dear mademoiselle, come back to yourself, make an effort, quick, quick!”
It was difficult to deploy more persuasive eloquence than did Saint-Aignan; but something more energetic and more active still than that eloquence awakened La Vallière.
The king had knelt before her, and was imprinting upon the palm of her hand those burning kisses which are to the hands what the kiss of the lips is to the face. She came back to herself at last, reopened her eyes languidly, and, with a dying glance:
“Oh! Sire,” she murmured, “Your Majesty has then forgiven me?”
The king answered not... he was still too moved.
De Saint-Aignan thought he ought to withdraw again... He had divined the flame flashing from His Majesty’s eyes.
La Vallière rose.
“And now, Sire,” said she with courage, “now that I have justified myself, I hope at least in the eyes of Your Majesty, grant me to retire into a convent. There I shall bless my king all my life, and there I shall die loving God, who gave me one day of happiness.”
“No, no,” answered the king, “no, you shall live here blessing God, on the contrary, but loving Louis, who will make you a whole existence of felicity, Louis who loves you, Louis who swears it to you!”
“Oh! Sire, Sire!...”
And at this doubt of La Vallière, the king’s kisses became so burning, that de Saint-Aignan thought it was his duty to pass to the other side of the tapestry.
But those kisses, which she had not at first had the force to repel, began to burn the young girl.
“Oh! Sire,” she then cried, “do not make me repent of having been so loyal, for that would prove to me that Your Majesty still despises me.”
“Mademoiselle,” said the king suddenly, drawing back full of respect, “I love and honor nothing in the world more than you, and nothing at my court shall be, I swear to God, as esteemed as you shall henceforth be; I therefore ask your pardon for my outburst, mademoiselle, it came of an excess of love; but I can prove to you that I shall love yet more, in respecting you as much as you may desire.”
Then, bowing before her and taking her hand:
“Mademoiselle,” said he to her, “will you do me the honor of accepting the kiss I lay upon your hand?”
And the king’s lip rested respectfully and lightly upon the trembling hand of the young girl.
“Henceforth,” added Louis, rising and covering La Vallière with his gaze, “henceforth you are under my protection. Speak to no one of the ill I did you, forgive the others that which they may have done you. In future, you shall be so far above those, that, far from inspiring fear in you, they shall no longer even pity you.”
And he bowed religiously as one leaving a temple.
Then, calling de Saint-Aignan, who approached all humble:
“Count,” said he, “I hope that Mademoiselle will be willing to grant you a little of her friendship in return for that which I have vowed to her forever.”
De Saint-Aignan bent the knee before La Vallière.
“What joy for me,” he murmured, “if Mademoiselle does me such an honor!”
“I am going to send your companion back to you,” said the king. “Farewell, mademoiselle, or rather au revoir: do me the grace not to forget me in your prayer.”
“Oh! Sire,” said La Vallière, “be at ease: you are with God in my heart.”
This last word intoxicated the king, who, all joyful, drew de Saint-Aignan along down the steps.
Madame had not foreseen that ending: neither naiad nor dryad had spoken of it.
Chapter CXXXIV — The New General of the Jesuits
While La Vallière and the king confounded in their first avowal all the sorrows of the past, all the happiness of the present, all the hopes of the future, Fouquet, returned home, that is to say into the apartment which had been assigned him at the castle, Fouquet was conferring with Aramis, precisely of all that which the king was neglecting at that moment.
“You will tell me,” began Fouquet, when he had installed his guest in an armchair and taken his place himself at his side, “you will tell me, Monsieur d’Herblay, where we now stand in the affair of Belle-Île, and whether you have received any news of it.”
“Monsieur the Superintendent,” answered Aramis, “all goes on that side as we desire; the expenses have been paid, nothing of our designs has transpired.”
“But the garrisons that the king wished to put there?”
“I received news this morning that they arrived there fifteen days ago.”
“And they were treated?”
“Admirably.”
“But the old garrison, what has become of it?”
“It landed at Sarzeau, and was immediately directed upon Quimper.”
“And the new garrisoners?”
“Are ours at this hour.”
“You are sure of what you say, my dear Monsieur de Vannes?”
“Sure, and you shall see, besides, how things came to pass.”
“But of all garrisons, you know, Belle-Île is precisely the worst.”
“I know that and act accordingly; no space, no communications, no women, no gaming; now, today, it is a great pity,” added Aramis with one of those smiles that belonged to him alone, “to see how much the young men seek to divert themselves, and how much, in consequence, they incline toward him who pays for the diversions.”
“But if they amuse themselves at Belle-Île?”
“If they amuse themselves by the king’s leave, they will love the king; but if they are bored by the king’s leave and amuse themselves by Monsieur Fouquet’s leave, they will love Monsieur Fouquet.”
“And you warned my intendant, so that immediately upon their arrival...”
“Not at all: they were left a week to be bored at their ease; but, at the end of eight days, they complained, saying the last officers amused themselves more than they. They were then answered that the former officers had known how to make a friend of Monsieur Fouquet, and that Monsieur Fouquet, knowing them for friends, had thereupon wished them enough good will that they should not be bored upon his lands. Then they reflected. But immediately the intendant added that, without prejudging Monsieur Fouquet’s orders, he knew his master well enough to know that any gentleman in the king’s service interested him, and that he would do, although he did not know the newcomers, as much for them as he had done for the others.”
“Admirably! And, thereupon, the deeds followed the promises, I hope? I desire, you know, that one never promise in my name without keeping.”
“Thereupon, our two privateers and your horses were placed at the officers’ disposal; they were given the keys of the principal house; so that they hold hunting parties and walks there with such ladies as they find at Belle-Île, and as they could recruit among those not fearing seasickness in the neighborhood.”
“And there are a good number at Sarzeau and at Vannes, are there not, Your Grace?”
“Oh! all along the coast,” answered Aramis tranquilly.
“Now, for the soldiers?”
“All is relative, you understand; for the soldiers, wine, excellent provisions, and high pay.”
“Very good; so that?...”
“So that we may count upon this garrison, which is already better than the other.”
“Good.”
“It results from this that, if God consents that we thus renew the garrisoners only every two months, at the end of three years the army will have passed through, so well that instead of having one regiment for us, we shall have fifty thousand men.”
“Yes, I knew well,” said Fouquet, “that none better than you, Monsieur d’Herblay, was a precious, priceless friend; but in all this,” added he, laughing, “we forget our friend of the Valley: what is becoming of him? During these three days that I passed at Saint-Mandé, I forgot everything, I confess.”
“Oh! I do not forget him,” resumed Aramis. “Porthos is at Saint-Mandé, greased at all the joints, pampered in food, cared for in wines; I had him given the walk of the little park, a walk you had reserved for yourself alone; he makes use of it. He is beginning to walk again; he exercises his strength in bending young elms or in splitting old oaks, as Milo of Croton did, and as there are no lions in the park, it is probable we shall find him intact. He is a brave fellow, our Porthos.”
“Yes; but, meanwhile, he is going to be bored.”
“Oh! never.”
“He is going to question?”
“He sees no one.”
“But, finally, he waits or hopes for something?”
“I gave him a hope that we shall realize some morning, and he lives on that.”
“Which?”
“That of being presented to the king.”
“Oh! oh! in what capacity?”
“As engineer of Belle-Île, by God!”
“Is that possible?”
“It is true.”
“Certainly; now would it not be needful that he return to Belle-Île?”
“Indispensable; I am even thinking of sending him there as soon as possible. Porthos has much presence; he is a man whose weakness only d’Artagnan, Athos, and I know. Porthos never gives himself away; he is full of dignity; before the officers, he will produce the effect of a paladin of the time of the crusades. He will fuddle the staff without fuddling himself, and will be for everyone an object of admiration and sympathy; then, if it happened that we had an order to execute, Porthos is a living standing-order, and one will always have to go by where he wishes.”
“Therefore, send him back.”
“That is also my design, but only in a few days, for I must tell you something.”
“What?”
“It is that I mistrust d’Artagnan. He is not at Fontainebleau as you may have remarked, and d’Artagnan is never absent or idle with impunity. Also, now that my affairs are done, I am going to try to learn what affairs d’Artagnan is doing.”
“Your affairs are done, you say?”
“Yes.”
“You are very happy, then, and I could wish to say as much.”
“I hope you are no longer uneasy?”
“Hum!”
“The king receives you admirably.”
“Yes.”
“And Colbert leaves you in peace?”
“About.”
“In that case,” said Aramis with that sequence of ideas which was his strength, “in that case, we may therefore think of what I was telling you yesterday about the little one?”
“What little one?”
“You have already forgotten?”
“Yes.”
“About La Vallière?”
“Ah! that is right.”
“Does it then repel you to win this girl?”
“On one point only.”
“Which?”
“It is that the heart is engaged elsewhere, and that I feel absolutely nothing for this child.”
“Oh! oh!” said Aramis; “engaged by the heart, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“The devil! one must take care of that.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be terrible to be engaged by the heart when, like you, one has so much need of one’s head.”
“You are right. Also, you see, at your first call I quit everything. But let us return to the little one. What utility do you see in my occupying myself with her?”
“Here it is. The king, it is said, has a caprice for this little one, at least so it is believed.”
“And you who know everything, you know something else?”
“I know that the king has changed very rapidly; that the day before yesterday the king was all fire for Madame; that some days ago, Monsieur complained of this fire to the queen mother; that there were conjugal quarrels, maternal scoldings.”
“How do you know all that?”
“I know it, finally.”
“Well?”
“Well! following these quarrels and these scoldings, the king no longer addressed a word, no longer paid attention to Her Royal Highness.”
“After?”
“After, he occupied himself with Mlle de La Vallière. Mlle de La Vallière is lady-in-waiting to Madame. Do you know what in love is called a chaperon?”
“Certainly.”
“Well! Mlle de La Vallière is the chaperon of Madame. Profit by this position. You have no need of that. But finally, wounded vanity will render the conquest easier; the little one will have the secret of the king and of Madame. You do not know what an intelligent man does with a secret.”
“But how to reach her?”
“You ask me that?” said Aramis.
“Certainly, I shall not have time to occupy myself with her.”
“She is poor, she is humble, you will create a position for her: whether she subjugates the king as mistress, or whether she draws near him only as confidante, you will have made a new adept.”
“Very well,” said Fouquet. “What shall we do regarding this little one?”
“When you have desired a woman, what have you done, Monsieur the Superintendent?”
“I wrote to her. I made my protestations of love. I added my offers of service, and I signed Fouquet.”
“And none resisted?”
“Only one,” said Fouquet. “But it is four days since she yielded like the others.”
“Will you take the trouble to write?” said Aramis to Fouquet, presenting a pen.
Fouquet took it.
“Dictate,” said he. “I have my head so occupied elsewhere, that I could not find two lines.”
“Be it so,” said Aramis. “Write.”
And he dictated:
“Mademoiselle, I have seen you, and you will not be astonished that I found you beautiful.
But you can, for lack of a position worthy of you, only vegetate at Court.
The love of an honest man, in case you had some ambition, might serve as auxiliary to your wit and your charms.
“Stories of the world, in your language.”