Chapter XXX: The Oriel Window

“You have come at last,” said Louis eagerly. “Why would you not look at me? I have suffered tortures; I abhor the Queen’s ladies, a set of painted Jezebels, specially the Duchesse de Chevreuse, a dangerous intriguer, her Majesty’s evil genius. I saw them all mocking me. Why did you not look at me? you knew I came for you,” repeated he, querulously.

“Surely, Sire, I could not be so presumptuous as to imagine that a visit to her Majesty from her husband concerned me.”

“Her husband! would I had never seen her, or her friend the Duchesse. They are both--well, I will not say what, certainly spies, spies of Spain. My principles forbid me to associate with such women. You look displeased, mademoiselle--what have I done?”--for Mademoiselle de Hautefort showed by her expression the disapproval she felt at his abuse of the Queen. “It is your purity, your sweetness, that alone make the Court bearable. But you are not looking at me--cruel, selfish girl! would you too forsake me?”

The maid of honour feeling that she must say something, and assume an interest she did not feel, looked up into the King’s face and smiled. “I am here, Sire, for your service. I am neither cruel nor selfish, but I am grieved at the terms in which you speak of my gracious mistress. Let me pray your Majesty, most humbly, not to wound me by such language.”

Her look, her manner, softened the irritable Louis. He took her hand stealthily and kissed it. He gazed at her pensively for some moments without speaking.

“How beautiful you are, and wise as you are beautiful!” exclaimed he at length. “I have much to say to you, but not about my Spanish wife. Let us not mention her.” His eyes were still riveted on the maid of honour; his lips parted as if to speak, then he checked himself, but still retained her hand, which he pressed.

“You hunted yesterday, Sire,” said she, confused at the King’s silence and steadfast gaze; “what number of stags did you kill? I was not present at the _curée_.” She gently withdrew her hand from the King’s grasp.

“I did not hunt yesterday; I was ill,” replied Louis. “I am ill, very ill.”

This allusion to his health instantly changed the current of his thoughts, for Louis was a complete valetudinarian. He became suddenly moody, and sank heavily into a seat placed behind a curtain, the thick folds of which concealed both him and the maid of honour.

“I am harassed, sick to death of everything. I should die but for you. I can open my heart to you.” And then suddenly becoming conscious that Mademoiselle de Hautefort still stood before him, he drew a chair close to his side, on which he desired her to seat herself.

Mademoiselle de Hautefort, knowing well that the King would now go on talking to her for a long time, assumed an attitude of pleased attention. Louis looked pale and haggard. His sallow cheeks were shrunk, his large eyes hollow. As he spoke a hectic flush went and came upon his face.

“Will you not let me take your hand, mademoiselle?” said he, timidly. “I feel I could talk much better if I did, and I have much to say to you.”

She reluctantly placed her hand in his. The King sighed deeply.

“What is the matter, Sire?”

“Ah, that is the question! I long to tell you. I sigh because I am weary of my life. My mother, who still calls herself Regent, and pretends to govern the kingdom, quarrels perpetually with Richelieu. The council is distracted by her violence and ill-temper; affairs of state are neglected. She reproaches Richelieu publicly for his ingratitude, as she calls it, because he will not support her authority rather than the good of the kingdom. The Duc d’Epernon supports her. He is as imperious as she is. Her ambition embitters my life, as it embittered that of my great father.”

“Oh, Sire, remember that the Queen-dowager of France is your mother. Besides, Richelieu owes everything to her favour. Had it not been for her he would have remained an obscure bishop at Luçon all his life. She placed him at Court.”

“Yes, and he shall stay there. _Par Dieu!_ he shall stay there. If any one goes it shall be my mother. I feel I myself have no capacity for governing; I shrink from the tremendous responsibility; but I am better able to undertake it than the Queen-mother. Her love of power is so excessive she would sacrifice me and every one else to keep it--she and the Duc d’Epernon,” he added, bitterly. “Richelieu is an able minister. He is ambitious, I know, but I am safe in his hands. He can carry out no measures of reform, he cannot maintain the dignity of the Crown, if he is for ever interfered with by a fractious woman,--vain, capricious, incompetent.”

“Oh, Sire!” and Mademoiselle de Hautefort held up her hands to stop him.

“It is true, madame. Did not the Queen-mother and her creatures, the Concini and the Duc d’Epernon, all but plunge France into civil war during her regency? She was nigh being deposed, and I with her. What a life I led until De Luynes rescued me! He presumed upon my favour, _le fripon_, and brought boat-loads of Gascon cousins to Court from Guienne. I never knew a man have so many cousins! They came in shoals, and never one of them with a silken cloak to his back--a beggarly lot!”

“But, Sire,” said Mademoiselle de Hautefort, sitting upright in her chair, and trying to fix the King’s wandering mind, “why do you need either her Majesty the Queen-mother or the Cardinal de Richelieu? Depend on no one. Govern for yourself, Sire.”

“Impossible, impossible. I am too weak. I have no capacity. I have none of my great father’s genius.” And the King lifted his feathered hat reverently from his head each time he named his father. “Richelieu rules for me. He has intellect. He will maintain the honour of France. The nation is safe in his hands. As for me, I am tyrannised over by my mother, laughed at by my Spanish wife, and betrayed by my own brother. I am not fit to reign. Every one despises me--except you.” And the King turned with an appealing look towards Mademoiselle de Hautefort. “You, I hope, at least, understand me. You do me justice.”

There was a melting expression in the King’s eyes which she had never seen before. It alarmed her. She felt that her only excuse for the treacherous part she was acting was in the perfect innocence of their relations. A visible tremor passed over her. She blushed violently, a look of pain came into her face, and her eyes fell before his gaze.

“You do not speak? Have I offended you?” cried Louis, much excited. “What have I said? Oh, mademoiselle, do not lose your sympathy for me, else I shall die! I know I am unworthy of your notice; but--see how I trust you. The hours I spend in your society give me the only happiness I enjoy. Pity, pity the King of France, who craves your help, who implores your sympathy!”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort, speaking in her usual quiet manner, entreated him to be calm.

“Am I forgiven?” said he in a faltering voice, looking the picture of despair. “Will you still trust me?”

“Yes, yes, Sire. I am ashamed to answer such a question. Your Majesty has given me no offence.”

Louis reseated himself.

“It is to prepare you for an unexpected event that I wish to talk to you. It is possible that I may shortly leave Compiègne suddenly and secretly. I must tear myself away from you for a while.”

“Leave the Court, Sire! What do you mean?”

“The quarrels between my mother and Richelieu are more than I can endure. They must end. One must go--I will not say which. You can guess. I am assured by Richelieu, who has information from all parts of France, that her Majesty is hated by the people. She is suspected of a knowledge of my great father’s death; she has abused her position. No one feels any interest in her fate.”

“But, surely, your Majesty feels no pleasure in knowing that it is so, even if it be true, which I much doubt.”

“Well, her Majesty has deserved little favour of me,” replied he with indifference. “Richelieu tells me that her exile would be a popular act----”

“Her exile, Sire! You surely do not contemplate the exile of your own mother?”

“Possibly not--possibly not; but a sovereign must be advised by his ministers. It is indispensable to the prosperity of the State.”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort was silent, but something of the contempt she felt might have been seen in her expressive eyes.

“I do not feel disposed,” continued he, “to face the anger of the Queen-mother when she hears my determination. She would use violent language to me that might make me forget I am her son. Richelieu must break it to her. He can do it while I am away. Agitation injures my health, it deranges my digestion. I have enough to bear from my wife, from whom it is not so easy to escape----”

Again he stopped abruptly, as if he were about to say more than he intended.

Mademoiselle de Hautefort, ever on the lookout for all that concerned her mistress the Queen, glanced at him with sullen curiosity. Her eyes read his thoughts.

“Your Majesty is concealing something from me?” she said.

“Well, yes,”--and he hesitated--“it is a subject too delicate to mention.”

“Have you, then, withdrawn your confidence from me, Sire?” asked she, affecting the deepest concern.

“No, no--never. I tell you everything--yet, I blush to allude to such a subject.”

“What subject, Sire? Does it concern her Majesty?”

“By heaven it does!” cried the King, with unwonted excitement, a look of rage on his face. “It is said--” and he stopped, and looked round suspiciously, and became crimson. “Not here--not here,” he muttered, rising. “I cannot speak of it here. It is too public. Come with me into this closet.”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort, foreboding some misfortune to the Queen, followed him, trembling in every limb, into a small retiring-closet opening from the gallery where they had been seated. He drew her close to the window, glanced cautiously around, and placed his hand on her arm.

“It is said,”--he spoke in a low voice--“it is said--and appearances confirm it--that”--and he stooped, and whispered some words in Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s ear, who started back with horror. “If it be so,” he added coolly, “I shall crave a dispensation from the Pope, and send the Queen back to Madrid.”

“For shame, Sire! you are deceived,” cried Mademoiselle de Hautefort, an expression of mingled disgust, anger, and terror on her face. She could hardly bring herself to act out the part imposed upon her for the Queen’s sake. She longed to overwhelm the unmanly Louis with her indignation; but she controlled her feelings. “On my honour, Sire,” said she firmly, “they do but converse as friends. For the truth of this I wager my life--my salvation.”

“Nothing of the kind,” insisted Louis doggedly. “It is your exalted virtue that blinds you to their wickedness. My mother, who hates me--even my mother pities me; she believes in the Queen’s guilt.”

“Sire,” broke in the maid of honor impetuously, her black eyes full of indignation, “I have already told you I will not hear my royal mistress slandered; this is a foul slander. To me she is as sacred as your Majesty, who are an anointed king.” Louis passed his hand over his brow, and mused in silence. “I beseech you, Sire, listen to me,” continued she, seeing his irresolution. “I speak the truth; before God I speak the truth!” Louis looked fixedly at her. Her vehemence impressed, if it did not convince him. “Your Majesty needs not the counsel of the Queen-mother in affairs of state; do not trust her, or any one else, in matters touching the honour of your consort.” And she raised her eyes, and looked boldly at him. “Promise me, Sire, to dismiss this foul tale from your mind.”

“All your words are precious, mademoiselle,” replied Louis evasively, and he caught her hand and kissed it with fervour.

Mademoiselle de Hautefort dared not press him further. She withdrew her hand. They were both silent, and stood opposite to each other. As Louis gazed into her eyes, still sparkling with indignation, his anger melted away.

“When I am gone, mademoiselle,” said he tenderly, “do not forget me. You are my only friend. I will watch over you, though absent. Here is a piece of gold, pure and unalloyed as are my feelings toward you,” and he disengaged from his neck a medallion delicately chased. “See, I have broken it. One half I will keep; the other shall rest in your bosom”; and he pressed it to his lips, and placed it in Mademoiselle de Hautefort’s hands. “As long as you hold that piece of gold without the other half, know that as the token is divided between us, so is my heart--the better half with you.”

Her conscience smote her as she received this pledge. Louis had such perfect faith in her integrity, she almost repented that her duty to the Queen forced her to deceive him.

“Your Majesty overwhelms me,” said she, making a deep reverence.

“The Court is full of intrigues,” continued Louis, “I have no wish to control my minister; but remember this--obey no order, defy all commands, that are delivered to you without that token.” The maid of honour bowed her head. A tear stole down her cheek; the King’s simplicity touched her in spite of herself. “Adieu, mademoiselle,” said he, “my best, my only friend. I humbly crave your pardon for aught I may have said or done to wound your delicacy. We will meet at Saint-Germain: then, perhaps, you will fear me less. We will meet at Saint-Germain.”

He hesitated, and approached dangerously near to the handsome maid of honour, whose confusion made her all the more attractive. As he approached, she retreated.

Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and a page entered the closet, and announced--

“The Queen-dowager, who demands instant admittance to her son, the King.”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort disappeared in an instant through a door concealed in the arras. The King, pale as death, put his hand to his heart, sank into a chair, and awaited the arrival of his mother.