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Huguenot: A Tale of the French Protestants

<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2><h3>THE WOMAN'S JUDGMENT.</h3> We must now, for a little, change the scene entirely; and, as we find often done most naturally, both in reality and poetry, bring the prison and the palace side by side. It was in one of the smaller chambers, then, of the palace at Versailles--exquisitely fitted up with furniture of the most costly, if not of the most splendid materials, with very great taste shown in every thing, grace in all the ornaments, harmony in all the colours, and a certain degree of justness and appropriateness in every object around--that there sat a lady, late on the evening of an autumnal day, busily reading from a book, illustrated with some of the richest and most beautiful miniatures that the artists of the French capital could then produce. She was, at the time we speak, of somewhat past the middle age,--that is to say, she was nearly approaching to the age of fifty, but she looked considerably younger than she really was, and forty was the very extreme at which any one by the mere look would have ventured to place the number of her years. The rich worked candelabra of gold under which she was reading cast its light upon not a single grey hair. The form was full and rounded; the arms white and delicate; the hand, which in general loses its symmetry sooner than aught else, except, perhaps, the lips, was as tapering, as soft, and as beautiful in contour as ever. The eyes were large and expressive, and there was a thoughtfulness about the whole countenance which had nothing of melancholy in its character, perhaps a little of worldliness, but more of mind and intellect than either. After she had been reading for some time, the door was quietly opened, and the King himself entered with a soft and almost noiseless step. The lady immediately laid down her book and rose, but the King took her by the hand, led her back to her chair, and seated himself beside her. "Still busy, reading," he said. "I am anxious to do so, your Majesty," she answered, "at every moment that I can possibly command. In the sort of life which I am destined to lead, and in your Majesty's splendid court, temptations to forget what is right, and to think of nothing but pleasures and enjoyments, are so manifold, that one has need to have recourse to such calmer counsellors as these," and she laid her hand upon the book, "counsellors who are not disturbed by such seductions, and whose words have with them a portion of the tranquillity of the dead." The words were of a soberer character than Louis had been accustomed to hear from the lips of woman during the greater part of his life, but still they did not displease him, and he replied only by saying,-- "But we must have a few more living counsels at present, Madame, for the fate of Louis----" "Which is the fate of France," she said in so low a voice that it could scarcely be termed an interruption. "For the fate of Louis and of his domestic happiness--a word, alas, which is so little known to kings--is even now in the balance. Madame," he continued, taking that fair hand in his, "Madame, it is scarcely necessary at this hour to tell you that I love you; it is scarcely necessary to speak what are the wishes and the hopes of the King; scarcely necessary to say what would be his conduct were not motives, strong and almost overpowering, opposed to all that he most desires." Madame de Maintenon, for she it was, had risen from her seat; had withdrawn her hand from that of the King, and for a moment pressed both her hands tightly upon her heart, while her countenance, which had become as pale as death, spoke that the emotion which she felt was real. "Cease, Sire; oh, cease," she exclaimed, "if you would not have me drop at your feet! Indeed," she continued more vehemently, "that is my proper place," and she cast herself at once upon her knees before the King, taking the hand from which she had just disengaged her own, to bend her lips over it with a look of reverence and affection. "Hear me, Sire, hear me," she said, as the King endeavoured to raise her, "hear me even as I am; for notwithstanding the deep and sincere love and veneration which are in my heart, I must yet offend in one person the monarch whom every voice in Europe proclaims the greatest in the earth; the man whom my own heart tells me is the most worthy to be loved. There is one, however, Sire, who must be loved and venerated first, and beyond all--I mean the Almighty; and from his law, and from his commands, nothing on earth shall ever induce me to swerve. Now, for more than a year, such has been my constant reply to your Majesty on these occasions. I have besought you, I have entreated you never to speak on such subjects again, unless that were possible which I know to be impossible." "Nay," replied the Monarch, interrupting her, and raising her with a little gentle force, "nay, nothing is impossible, but for me to see you kneeling there." "Oh yes, indeed, indeed, it is, your Majesty!" she said; "I have long known it, I have long been sure of it. You once condescended to dream of it yourself; you mentioned it to me, and I for a single instant was deceived by hope; but as soon as I came to examine it, I became convinced, fully convinced, that such a thing was utterly and entirely impossible, that your Majesty should descend from your high station, and that you should oppose and over-rule the advice and opinion of courtiers and ministers, who, though perhaps a little touched with jealousy, can easily find sound and rational reasons enough to oppose your will in this instance. Oh, no, no, Sire, I know it is impossible; for Heaven's sake do not agitate me by a dream of happiness that can never be realised!" "So little is it impossible, dear friend," replied the King, "that it is scarcely half an hour ago since I spoke with Louvois upon the subject." "And what did he say?" exclaimed Madame de Maintenon, with an eagerness that she could not master. "He opposed it, of course--and doubtless wisely. But oh, Sire, you must grant me a favour: the last of many, but still a very great one. You must let me retire from your court, from this place of cruel and terrible temptation, where they look upon me, from the favour which your Majesty has been pleased to show me, in a light which I dare not name. No, Sire, no, I will never have it said, that I lived on at your court knowing that I bore the name of your concubine. However false, the imputation is too terrible to be undergone--I, who have ever raised my voice against such acts, I, who have risked offending your Majesty by remonstrances and exhortations. No, Sire, no! I cannot, indeed I cannot, undergo it any longer. It is terrible to me, it is injurious to your Majesty, who has so nobly triumphed over yourself in another instance. It matters not what Monsieur de Louvois has said, though I trust he said nothing on earth to lead you to believe that I am capable of yielding to unlawful love." "Oh no," replied the King, "his opposition was but to the marriage, and that as usual was rude, gross, and insulting to his King. I wonder that I have patience with him. But it will some day soon give way." "I hope and trust, Sire," cried Madame de Maintenon, clasping her hands earnestly, "I hope and trust that your Majesty has not suffered insult on my account. Then, indeed, it were high time that I should go." "No," replied Louis, "not absolute insult. Louvois means but to act well. He said every thing in opposition, I acknowledge, coarsely and rudely, and in the end he cast himself upon his knees before me, unsheathed his sword, and, offering the hilt, besought me to take his life, rather than to do what I contemplated." "He did!" cried Madame de Maintenon, with a bright red spot in either cheek. "He did! The famous minister of Louis XIV. has been studying at the theatre lately I know! But still, Sire, though doubtless he was right in some part of his view, Françoise d'Aubigné is not quite so lowly as to be an object of scorn to the son of Michael le Tellier, whose ancestors I believe sold drugs at Rheims, while my grandfather supported the throne of yours with his sword, his blood, and his wisdom. He might have spared his scorn, methinks, and saved his wit for argument. But I must not speak so freely in my own cause, for that it is my own, I acknowledge," and she wiped away some tears from her fine eyes. "It is my own, for when I beseech your Majesty to let me leave you, I tear my own heart, I trample upon all my own feelings. But oh, believe me, Sire," she continued ardently, "believe me when I say, that I would rather that heart were broken, as it soon will be, than that your Majesty should do any thing derogatory to your crown and dignity, or I must add, than I would do myself any thing in violation of the precepts of virtue and religion." She wept a good deal; but she wept gracefully, and hers was one of those faces which looked none the worse for tears. The King gently drew her to her seat, for she had still been standing; saying, "Nay, nay, be comforted. You have yet the King. You think not really then," he said, "really and sincerely you think not, that there is any true degradation in a monarch wedding a subject? I ask you yourself, I ask you to speak candidly!" "Nay, Sire," cried Madame de Maintenon, "how can you ask me, deeply interested as I am--how can you ask any woman? For we all feel alike in such things, and differently from you men. There is not one woman, proud or humble in your Majesty's court, that would not give you the same answer, if she spoke sincerely." "Indeed!" exclaimed the King; "then we men must be certainly in the wrong. But what think you," he continued, "what think you, as a proof--what would yon fair girl Clémence de Marly say, were we to ask her? I saw her but now, as I passed, reading with the Dauphine in somewhat melancholy guise." "Well may she be melancholy, Sire!" replied the lady, somewhat sadly, "when the King hears not her prayers. But methinks it would be hardly fair to make her a judge." "Why, why?" demanded Louis quickly; "because she is so proud and haughty?--Remember, you said the proudest in our court." "So I say still, Sire," replied Madame de Maintenon in a gentle tone; "but I do not think her proud. She would be too favourable a judge; that was my sole objection. Her own station in the court is doubtful; and besides, Sire, you could not think of submitting that, on which none--no, not the wisest minister you have--can judge so well as yourself, to the decision of a girl." "Fear not," replied the King; "I will but take her voice on the matter, without her knowing aught of that on which her opinion is called for. I would fain hear what a young and unpractised tongue would say. Let her be called in." Madame de Maintenon hesitated for a moment. The risk seemed great; the object of long years was at stake; and her own fate, and that of France, might depend upon the words of a wild, proud girl. But she saw no means of avoiding the trial; and she rang the bell: even in the very act of doing so, remembering many a trait of Clémence, both in childhood and youth, which gave her some assurance. A page appeared instantly, and was despatched to the apartments of the Dauphine to call Mademoiselle de Marly to the presence of the King. The feet of Clémence bore her thither like light, though her heart beat wildly with fear and agitation; and the hue of her cheek, once so bright and glowing, was now as pale as death. She was glad, however, to find the King and Madame de Maintenon alone, for she had succeeded in interesting the latter in the fate of the Count de Morseiul, and she doubted not that she would exert herself, as much as she dared to do for any one, to persuade the King to deal with him gently. So many long and weary days had passed, however, with but little progress, that she had well nigh sunk into despair, when the summons of this night made her suppose that her fate, and that of her lover, was upon the eve of being decided. The page who conducted her closed the door as soon as she had entered, and Clémence stood before the King with feelings of awe and agitation, such as in former days she knew not that she could feel towards the greatest potentate on earth: but Clémence de Marly loved, and her whole feelings had been changed. Not a little was her surprise, however, when the King addressed her in a tone half playful, half serious,-- "Come hither, spoiled beauty," he said, "come hither: and sit down upon that stool--or, in truth, I should give you up this chair, for you are going to act a part that you never performed before--that of judge, and in a matter of taste, too." Clémence put her hand to her brow, as if to clear away the thoughts with which she had come thither. But, after gazing in the King's face for a moment with a bewildered look, she recovered herself, and replied,-- "Indeed, Sire, I am, of all people, the most unfit; but I will do my best to please your Majesty. What may be the question?" "Why," answered the King, smiling at her evident surprise and embarrassment, the real cause of which he had quite forgotten in his own thoughts and feelings, "why the matter is this; a new play has been submitted to us for approval by one of our best poets. It turns upon an ancient king becoming in love with one of his own subjects, and marrying her while his ministers wish him to marry a neighbouring queen. The question of the policy, however, is not the thing. We have settled all that, but the point in dispute between me and this fair lady is, whether the poet would have done better to have made the heroine turn out, after all, to be some princess unknown. I say not; but our sweet friend, whose opinion, perhaps, is better than my own, contends that it would have been better, in order to preserve the king's dignity." Madame de Maintenon panted for breath, and grasped the book that lay on the table to prevent herself from betraying her agitation; but she dared not say a word, nor even look up. She was almost instantly relieved, however, for Clémence exclaimed, almost before the King had done speaking,--"Oh, no! oh, no! Dear lady, you are wrong, believe me. Kings lose their dignity only by evil acts; they rise in transcendent majesty when they tread upon base prejudices. I know nothing of the policy; you tell me that is apart; and the only question is whether she was worthy that he chose. Was she, Sire--was she noble and good?" "Most noble, and most excellent!" said the King. "Was she religious, wise, well educated?" continued Clémence, eagerly. "She was all!" answered Louis, "all in a most eminent degree." "Was she in knowledge, demeanour, character, worthy of his love and of himself?" asked the enthusiastic girl, with her whole face glowing. "In demeanour not inferior, in character equal, in knowledge superior--in all respects worthy!" replied the Monarch, catching her enthusiasm. But he was stopped by the agitated sobs of Madame de Maintenon, who, sinking from her chair at his feet, clasped his knees, exclaiming, "Spare me, Sire! Spare me, or I shall die!" The King gazed at her tenderly for a moment, then bent down his head, kissed her check, and, whispering a few brief words, placed her in the chair where he himself had been sitting. He then turned to Clémence de Marly, who stood by, astonished at the agitation that her words had produced, and fearful that the consequences might be the destruction of all her own hopes. The countenance of Louis, as he turned towards her, somewhat re-assured her; but still she could not help exclaiming with no slight anxiety, "I hope, Sire, I have not offended. I fear I have done so unintentionally." "If you have," said the King, smiling upon her graciously, "we will find a punishment for you; and as we have made you act as a judge where you little perhaps expected it, we will now make you a witness of things that you expected still less, but which your lips must never divulge till you are authorised to do so. Go as fast as possible to my oratory close by the little cabinet of audience, there you will find good Monsieur la Chaise: direct him to ring the bell, and--after having told Bontems to summon Monsieur de Montchevreuil and the Archbishop, who is still here, I think--to come hither himself as speedily as possible. You will accompany him." What were the King's intentions Clémence de Marly scarcely could divine; but seeing that her words had evidently given happiness both to the King and to Madame de Maintenon, and judging from that fact that her own best hopes for the deliverance of him she loved might be on the eve of accomplishment, she flew rather than ran to obey the King's directions. She found the King's confessor, La Chaise, waiting, evidently for the return of the King, with some impatience. The message which she brought him seemed to excite his astonishment greatly; but after pausing for a moment to consider what kind of event that message might indicate, the old man clasped his hands, exclaiming, "This is God's work, the King's salvation is now secure." He then did as he had been directed, rang the bell for Bontems, gave the order as he had received it, and hurried after Clémence along the corridor of the palace. At the door of Madame de Maintenon's apartment the young lady paused, for there were voices speaking eagerly within, and she feared to intrude upon the monarch. His commands to return, however, had been distinct, and she consequently opened the door and entered. Madame de Maintenon was standing by the table with her eyes bent down, and her colour much heightened. The King was also standing, and with a slight frown upon his countenance was regarding a person who had been added to the party since Clémence had left it. This was no other than the minister Louvois, whose coarse harsh features seemed filled with sullen mortification, which even the presence of the King could scarcely restrain from breaking forth in angry words. His eyes were bent down, not in humility but in stubborness, his shoulders a little raised, and he was muttering rather than speaking when Clémence entered. The only words, however, that were audible were, "Your Majesty's will must be a law to yourself as well as to your people. I have ventured in all sincerity to express my opinion, and have nothing more to say." The opening of the door caused Madame de Maintenon to raise her eyes, and when she saw Clémence and the confessor a glad and relieved smile played over her countenance, which was greatly increased by the words which the confessor addressed to the King immediately on his entrance. "Sire," he said, without waiting for Louis to speak, "from what I have heard, and from what I see, I believe--nay, I am sure, that your Majesty is about to take a step which will, more than any that I know of, tend to insure your eternal salvation. Am I not right?" and he extended his hand towards Madame de Maintenon, as if that gesture were quite sufficient to indicate his full meaning. "You are, my good father," replied the King; "and I am happy to find that so wise and so good a man as yourself approves of what I am doing. Monsieur Louvois here still seems discontented, though I have conceded so much to his views of policy as to promise that this marriage shall remain for ever private." "What are views of policy," cried Père la Chaise, "to your Majesty's eternal salvation? There are greater, there are higher considerations than worldly policy, Sire; but even were worldly policy all, I should differ with Monsieur Louvois, and say that you were acting as wisely in the things of this world as in reference to another." "God knows, and this lady knows," said Louvois, "that my only opposition proceeds from views of policy. For herself, personally," he added, feeling that he might have offended one who was more powerful than even himself, "for herself, personally, she well knows that I have the most deep and profound respect; and, since it is to be, I trust that his Majesty will allow me to be one of the witnesses." "Assuredly," replied the King. "I had so determined in my own mind, Monsieur de Louvois; and as we need not have more than three, we will dispense with this young lady's presence. Oh, here comes the Archbishop and Montchevreuil; my good father La Chaise, let me beg you to prepare an altar, even here. I have determined that all doubt and discussion upon this subject shall be over to-night. Explain, I beg you, to Monsieur de Harlay what are my views and intentions. One word, belle Clémence," he added, advancing to Clémence, and speaking to her with a gracious smile, "we shall not need your presence, fair lady, but you shall not want the bridemaid's presents. Come hither to-morrow half an hour before I go to the council; and as you have judged well and wisely in this cause to-night, we will endeavour to judge leniently on any cause that you may bring before us to-morrow." Although the King spoke low, his words did not escape the keen ear of Louvois; and when Clémence raised her eyes to reply, they met those of the minister gazing upon her with a look of fiend-like anger, which seemed to imply, "You have triumphed over me for the time, and have thwarted me in a matter of deep moment. You think at the same time you have gained your own private end, but I will disappoint you." Such at least was the interpretation that Clémence put upon that angry glance. For an instant it made her heart sink, but, recollecting her former courage the next instant, she replied boldly to the King, "My trust is always in your Majesty alone. I have ever had that trust; and what I have seen to-night would show me clearly, that let us expect what we may of your Majesty's magnanimity and generosity no disappointment will await us." Thus saying she retired; and what farther passed in the chamber that she quitted--though it affected the destinies of Louis, and of France, and of Europe, more than any event which had taken place for years--remains in the records of history amongst those things which are known though not proved, and are never doubted even though no evidence of their reality exists. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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