Chapter XXXV: At Val De Grâce

The ancient Benedictine abbey of the Val Profond, near Bièvre le Châlet, three leagues from Paris, was founded by Robert, son of Hugh Capet. Soon after her arrival in France, Anne of Austria bought the ground upon which the then ruined abbey stood, moved the nuns to Paris, and placed them in a convent called the Val de Grâce,[25] under the Mont Parnasse, near the Luxembourg Gardens. To this convent of the Val de Grâce the Queen often resorted to seek in prayer and meditation (for she was eminently pious), consolation and repose. On these occasions she occupied a suite of rooms specially set apart for her use.

It is a bright morning, and the sunshine streams through the painted windows, and streaks the marble floor of the Queen’s oratory with chequered colours. To the east, under a lofty window, stands an altar, covered with a costly cloth, on which, in golden sconces, burn many votive candles. Anne of Austria is seated in a recess, on a carved chair of dark oak. She is dressed in black, her golden curls are gathered under a sober coif; she looks pale, and ill at ease; her eyes, dulled by want of sleep, are anxious and restless, but there is a resolution in her bearing that shows she is prepared to meet whatever calamity awaits her with the courage of her race. Mademoiselle de Hautefort sits on a low stool at her feet. She is weeping bitterly.

“Ah! Madame,” she sobs, “this is Richelieu’s revenge. It is all his doing. How could your Majesty listen to the advice of that wild Duchess, and affront him so cruelly at Saint-Germain? Alas! he will persecute you as long as he lives.”

“I cannot recall the past,” answers Anne sadly.

“Had you reposed confidence in me, Madame, this would never have happened. Madame de Chevreuse has sacrificed you to her love of intrigue.”

“My poor Chevreuse, she is no more to blame than I am. Where is the Duchess, mademoiselle?”

While the Queen speaks a sound of wheels entering the courtyard from the street of Saint-Jacques breaks the silence. A moment after Madame de Chevreuse rushes into the oratory, so hidden in a black hood and a long cloak that no one would have recognised her. She flings herself on her knees before the Queen, and grasps her hands.

“Ah, my dear mistress, you are saved!” she cries, breathlessly. Anne raises her and kisses her tenderly. “I am just come from the Bastille. I went there disguised as a priest. I have seen Chalais. The Cardinal interpreted what Chalais said--purposely, of course--into meaning an attempt upon the life of the King.”

“Great God!” exclaims Anne, turning her glistening eyes to heaven, “what wickedness!”

“The King has joined the Cardinal in a purpose to prosecute your Majesty for treason. His Majesty is furious. He declares that he will repudiate you, and send you back into Spain. He has commanded the Chancellor Séguier and the Archbishop of Paris to repair here to the convent of the Val de Grâce to search your private papers for proofs of your guilt and of your treasonable intrigues with Spain. They are close at hand. I feared lest they had already arrived before I could return and apprise your Majesty.”

“But what of Chalais?” cries Anne. “Why did you visit him in the Bastille?”

“To learn what had passed between him and the Cardinal. We must all tell the same story. Chalais confesses to me that, in the confusion of his arrest at Nantes, he did let fall some expressions connecting your Majesty, Monsieur, and myself with the plot against Richelieu, and that when questioned he avowed that he acted with your knowledge.”

“Ah, the coward!” cries Mademoiselle de Hautefort bitterly. “And you love him.”

“No, mademoiselle, Chalais is no coward. He is a noble gentleman, whose fortitude will yet save her Majesty. He has been betrayed by Louvigni, the traitor, out of jealousy. Do not interrupt me, mademoiselle,” continues the Duchess, seeing that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is again about to break forth into reproaches against Chalais. “No sooner had Chalais arrived at the Bastille than Richelieu visited him in his cell. He offered him his life if he would consent to inculpate your Majesty in the plot. Chalais refused, and declared that the plot of which you were informed by Monsieur the Duc d’Orléans, was directed against himself; and he told the Cardinal he might tear him in pieces with wild horses before he would say one word to your Majesty’s prejudice.”

“Generous Chalais!” exclaims the Queen, clasping her hands. “Can he not be saved?”

“No, Madame, my noble friend must die. He knows it, and places his life at your feet.”

Anne sobs violently.

“Horrible! Oh, that I should cost those who love me so dear! Proceed, Duchess.”

“The Cardinal had in the meantime, as soon as your Majesty left Saint-Germain, sent to force your drawers and cabinets for papers.” Anne rises to her feet, white with terror. “Never fear, Madame; I had thought of that. Laporte had destroyed everything by my order. Only one letter to your brother the King of Spain was found. It was written the day you left, and confided by you, Mademoiselle de Hautefort, to Laporte,” and the Duchess gives a spiteful glance at the maid of honour. “Before he despatched it, Laporte was seized and searched.”

“There was nothing in that letter derogatory to me as Queen of France,” says the Queen quickly. “I spoke of Richelieu’s insane passion for me, and described the scene at Saint-Germain, and I told him I was about to leave for the Val de Grâce; nothing more. The Cardinal will not show that letter.”

“Yes, Madame, God be praised! it is so. But it was absolutely necessary that I should tell Chalais that but one letter had been found, and that perfectly innocent, before he was examined by the Cardinal. I have told him. He knows he can save his Queen. He is content to die!” As the Duchess speaks, the sound of wheels again interrupts them. “Hark! The Chancellor and the Archbishop have arrived. Courage, your Majesty! All now depends on your presence of mind. Nothing will be found in this convent, and Laporte waits at the door without. He will suffer no one to enter.”

Anne flings herself into the arms of the Duchess.

“You have saved me!” she cries, and covers her with kisses.

* * * * *

An hour has passed. Laporte knocks at the door, and enters. His looks betray the alarm he tries to conceal.

“The Chancellor, Madame, has arrived, in company with the Archbishop of Paris,” he says, addressing the Queen. “The Archbishop has commanded the Abbess, the venerable Louise de Milli, and all the sisterhood, who went out to meet him, to return each one within her cell, and not to exchange a single word together during the time he remains in the convent, under pain of excommunication.” The Queen and the Duchess exchange anxious glances. Laporte speaks again with much hesitation, “I regret to say that the Chancellor then proceeded to search all the cells. No papers were found.” The Duchess clasps her hands with exultation. “How can I go on?” Laporte groans, the tears coming into his eyes. “Forgive me, Madame; I cannot help it.” The Queen makes an impatient gesture, and Laporte continues: “The Chancellor craves your Majesty’s pardon, but desires me to tell you that he bears a royal warrant, which he must obey, to search your private apartment, and this oratory also.”

“Let him have every facility, my good Laporte,” answers the Queen collectedly. “Mademoiselle de Hautefort, deliver up all my keys to Laporte.”

“The Chancellor and the Archbishop desire to speak also to the lady-in-waiting on your Majesty, the Duchesse de Chevreuse,” Laporte adds.

“What new misfortune is this?” cries Anne of Austria, turning very pale. “Go, dear Duchess; all is not yet over, I fear.”

Madame de Chevreuse leaves the oratory with Laporte. The Queen casts herself on her knees before the sacred relics exposed on the altar. She hides her face in her hands.

It is not long before the Duchess returns. Her triumphant air has vanished. She tries to appear unconcerned, but cannot. Anne rises from her knees, and looks at her in silence.

“Speak, Madame de Chevreuse; I can bear it,” she says meekly.

“Alas! my dear mistress, Richelieu’s vengeance is not yet complete. The Chancellor has announced to me that a Council of State is about to assemble in the refectory of the convent. You are summoned to appear, to answer personally certain matters laid to your charge.”

Mademoiselle de Hautefort utters a loud scream. The Queen, her eyes riveted on the Duchess, neither moves nor speaks for some moments.

“You have more to say. Speak, Duchess,” she says at last in a low voice.

“Nothing whatever has been found--no line, no paper. I took care of that,” and the Duchess smiles faintly.

“You have not yet told me all. I must hear it. Conceal nothing,” again insists the Queen.

“Alas! it is indeed as you say. The Chancellor”--and her voice falls almost to a whisper--“has express orders under the King’s hand to search your Majesty’s _person_.”

“Search an anointed Queen!” exclaims Anne of Austria. “Never!” and she stretches out her arms wildly towards the altar. “Holy Virgin, help me!” she cries.

At this moment the sound of many footsteps is heard without in the stone passage, approaching the door. Anne of Austria has risen; she stands in the centre of the oratory; an unwonted fire glows in her eyes, a look of unmistakable command spreads itself over her whole person. Never had she looked more royal than in this moment of extreme humiliation. The Duchess rushes to the door and draws the ponderous bolts. “Now let them come,” cries she, “if they dare!” They all listen in breathless silence. The voice of Laporte, who has returned to his post outside the door, is heard in low but angry altercation. Then he is heard to say, in a loud voice--

“No one can be admitted to her Majesty, save only the King, without her permission.”

“We command you in the name of the law. Stand aside!” is the reply.

Then another voice speaks:--

“We are the bearers of an order from the King and the Council of State to see her Majesty.” It is the Chancellor’s voice, and his words are distinctly audible within.

“I know of no order but from the Queen my mistress. Your Grace shall not pass. If you do, it shall be across my body,” Laporte is heard to reply.

“We enter our solemn protest against this breach of the law; but we decline to force her Majesty’s pleasure.” It was still the Chancellor who spoke. Then the sound of receding footsteps told that he was gone.

“Where will this end?” asks Anne in a hollow voice, sinking into a chair.

The Duchess and Mademoiselle de Hautefort fling their arms round her.

“Bear up, Madame, the worst is over. Be only firm; they can prove nothing,” whispers the Duchess. “There is not a tittle of evidence against you.”

“Ah, but, my friend, you forget that the King is eager to repudiate me. Mademoiselle de Hautefort knows it from his own lips.”

“He cannot, without proofs of your guilt,” the Duchess answers resolutely. “There are none. And if he does, _qu’importe_? Why mar that queenly brow with sorrow, and wrinkle those delicate cheeks with tears? Be like me, Madame, a citizen of the world--Madrid, Paris, London--what matters? The sun shines as brightly in other lands as here. Life and love are everywhere. You are young, beautiful, courageous. To see you is to love you. Swords will start from their scabbards to defend you. Your exile in your brother’s Court will be a triumph. You will rule all hearts; you will still be the sovereign of youth, of poetry, and of song!”

As she speaks the Duchess’s countenance beams with enthusiasm. Anne of Austria shakes her head sorrowfully, and is silent.

“You are happy, Duchess, in such volatile spirits,” says Mademoiselle de Hautefort contemptuously, her eyes all the while fixed on her royal mistress; “but I cannot look on the disgrace of the Queen of France as though it were the finale to a page’s roundelay.”

The sound of many heavy coaches thundering into the inner court of the convent puts a stop to further conversation.

“The council is assembling!” exclaims the Duchess.

At these words the Queen rises mechanically; her large eyes, dilated and widely open, are fixed on vacancy, as though the vision of some unspoken horror, some awful disaster, had risen before her. She knows it is the crisis of her life. From that chamber she may pass to banishment, prison, or death. For a moment her mind wanders. She looks round wildly. “Spare me! spare me!” she murmurs, and she wrings her hands. “Alas! I am too young to die!” Then collecting her scattered senses, she moves forward with measured steps. “I am ready,” she says, in a hollow voice. “Unbar the door.”