Chapter XLIII. An Interview with the Queen-Mother.
The queen-mother was in the bedroom at the Palais Royal, with Madamede Motteville and Senora Molina. King Louis, who had been impatientlyexpected the whole day, had not made his appearance; and the queen, whowas growing impatient, had often sent to inquire about him. The moralatmosphere of the court seemed to indicate an approaching storm;the courtiers and the ladies of the court avoided meeting in theante-chambers and the corridors in order not to converse on compromisingsubjects. Monsieur had joined the king early in the morning for ahunting-party; Madame remained in her own apartment, cool and distantto every one; and the queen-mother, after she had said her prayersin Latin, talked of domestic matters with her two friends in pureCastilian. Madame de Motteville, who understood the language perfectly,answered her in French. When the three ladies had exhausted every formof dissimulation and of politeness, as a circuitous mode of expressingthat the king's conduct was making the queen and the queen-mother pineaway through sheer grief and vexation, and when, in the most guardedand polished phrases, they had fulminated every variety of imprecationagainst Mademoiselle de la Valliere, the queen-mother terminatedher attack by an exclamation indicative of her own reflections andcharacter. "_Estos hijos!_" said she to Molina--which means, "Thesechildren!" words full of meaning on a mother's lips--words full ofterrible significance in the mouth of a queen who, like Anne of Austria,hid many curious secrets in her soul.
"Yes," said Molina, "children, children! for whom every mother becomes asacrifice."
"Yes," replied the queen; "a mother sacrifices everything, certainly."She did not finish her phrase; for she fancied, when she raised her eyestowards the full-length portrait of the pale Louis XIII., that lightonce more flashed from her husband's dull eyes, and his nostrilsgrew livid with wrath. The portrait seemed animated by a livingexpression--speak it did not, but it seemed to threaten. A profoundsilence succeeded the queen's last remark. La Molina began to turn overribbons and laces on a large work-table. Madame de Motteville, surprisedat the look of mutual intelligence which had been exchanged between theconfidant and her mistress, cast down her eyes like a discreet woman,and pretending to be observant of nothing that was passing, listenedwith the utmost attention to every word. She heard nothing, however, buta very insignificant "hum" on the part of the Spanish duenna, who wasthe incarnation of caution--and a profound sigh on that of the queen.She looked up immediately.
"You are suffering?" she said.
"No, Motteville, no; why do you say that?"
"Your majesty almost groaned just now."
"You are right; I did sigh, in truth."
"Monsieur Valot is not far off; I believe he is in Madame's apartment."
"Why is he with Madame?"
"Madame is troubled with nervous attacks."
"A very fine disorder, indeed! There is little good in M. Valot beingthere, when a very different physician would quickly cure Madame."
Madame de Motteville looked up with an air of great surprise, as shereplied, "Another doctor instead of M. Valot?--whom do you mean?"
"Occupation, Motteville, occupation. If any one is really ill, it is mypoor daughter."
"And your majesty, too."
"Less so this evening, though."
"Do not believe that too confidently, madame," said De Motteville. And,as if to justify her caution, a sharp, acute pain seized the queen,who turned deadly pale, and threw herself back in the chair, withevery symptom of a sudden fainting fit. Molina ran to a richly gildedtortoise-shell cabinet, from which she took a large rock-crystal bottleof scented salts, and held it to the queen's nostrils, who inhaled itwildly for a few minutes, and murmured:
"It is hastening my death--but Heaven's will be done!"
"Your majesty's death is not so near at hand," added Molina, replacingthe smelling-bottle in the cabinet.
"Does your majesty feel better now?" inquired Madame de Motteville.
"Much better," returned the queen, placing her finger on her lips, toimpose silence on her favorite.
"It is very strange," remarked Madame de Motteville, after a pause.
"What is strange?" said the queen.
"Does your majesty remember the day when this pain attacked you for thefirst time?"
"I remember only that it was a grievously sad day for me, Motteville."
"But your majesty did not always regard that day as a sad one."
"Why?"
"Because three and twenty years ago, on that very day, his presentmajesty, your own glorious son, was born at the very same hour."
The queen uttered a loud cry, buried her face in her hands, and seemedutterly prostrated for some minutes; but whether from recollectionswhich arose in her mind, or from reflection, or even with sheer pain,was doubtful. La Molina darted a look at Madame de Motteville, so fullof bitter reproach, that the poor woman, perfectly ignorant ofits meaning, was in her own exculpation on the point of asking anexplanation, when, suddenly, Anne of Austria arose and said, "Yes, the5th of September; my sorrow began on the 5th of September. The greatestjoy, one day; the deepest sorrow the next;--the sorrow," she added, "thebitter expiation of a too excessive joy."
And, from that moment, Anne of Austria, whose memory and reason seemedto be suspended for the time, remained impenetrable, with vacant look,mind almost wandering, and hands hanging heavily down, as if life hadalmost departed.
"We must put her to bed," said La Molina.
"Presently, Molina."
"Let us leave the queen alone," added the Spanish attendant.
Madame de Motteville rose; large tears were rolling down the queen'spallid face; and Molina, having observed this sign of weakness, fixedher black vigilant eyes upon her.
"Yes, yes," replied the queen. "Leave us, Motteville; go."
The word "us" produced a disagreeable effect upon the ears of theFrench favorite; for it signified that an interchange of secrets, or ofrevelations of the past, was about to be made, and that one person was_de trop_ in the conversation which seemed likely to take place.
"Will Molina, alone, be sufficient for your majesty to-night?" inquiredthe French woman.
"Yes," replied the queen. Madame de Motteville bowed in submission, andwas about to withdraw, when suddenly an old female attendant, dressedas if she had belonged to the Spanish court of the year 1620, openedthe door, and surprised the queen in her tears. "The remedy!" she cried,delightedly, to the queen, as she unceremoniously approached the group.
"What remedy?" said Anne of Austria.
"For your majesty's sufferings," the former replied.
"Who brings it?" asked Madame de Motteville, eagerly; "Monsieur Valot?"
"No; a lady from Flanders."
"From Flanders? Is she Spanish?" inquired the queen.
"I don't know."
"Who sent her?"
"M. Colbert."
"Her name?"
"She did not mention it."
"Her position in life?"
"She will answer that herself."
"Who is she?"
"She is masked."
"Go, Molina; go and see!" cried the queen.
"It is needless," suddenly replied a voice, at once firm and gentle inits tone, which proceeded from the other side of the tapestry hangings;a voice which made the attendants start, and the queen trembleexcessively. At the same moment, a masked female appeared through thehangings, and, before the queen could speak a syllable she added, "Iam connected with the order of the Beguines of Bruges, and do, indeed,bring with me the remedy which is certain to effect a cure of yourmajesty's complaint." No one uttered a sound, and the Beguine did notmove a step.
"Speak," said the queen.
"I will, when we are alone," was the answer.
Anne of Austria looked at her attendants, who immediately withdrew. TheBeguine, thereupon, advanced a few steps towards the queen, and bowedreverently before her. The queen gazed with increasing mistrust atthis woman, who, in her turn, fixed a pair of brilliant eyes upon
her,through her mask.
"The queen of France must, indeed, be very ill," said Anne of Austria,"if it is known at the Beguinage of Bruges that she stands in need ofbeing cured."
"Your majesty is not irremediably ill."
"But tell me how you happen to know I am suffering?"
"Your majesty has friends in Flanders."
"Since these friends, then, sent you, mention their names."
"Impossible, madame, since your majesty's memory has not been awakenedby your heart."
Anne of Austria looked up, endeavoring to discover through themysterious mask, and this ambiguous language, the name of her companion,who expressed herself with such familiarity and freedom; then, suddenly,wearied by a curiosity which wounded every feeling of pride in hernature, she said, "You are ignorant, perhaps, that royal personages arenever spoken to with the face masked."
"Deign to excuse me, madame," replied the Beguine, humbly.
"I cannot excuse you. I may, possibly, forgive you, if you throw yourmask aside."
"I have made a vow, madame, to attend and aid all afflicted andsuffering persons, without ever permitting them to behold my face. Imight have been able to administer some relief to your body and to yourmind, too; but since your majesty forbids me, I will take my leave.Adieu, madame, adieu!"
These words were uttered with a harmony of tone and respect of mannerthat disarmed the queen of all anger and suspicion, but did not removeher feeling of curiosity. "You are right," she said; "it ill-becomesthose who are suffering to reject the means of relief Heaven sends them.Speak, then; and may you, indeed, be able, as you assert, to administerrelief to my body--"
"Let us first speak a little of the mind, if you please," said theBeguine--"of the mind, which, I am sure, must also suffer."
"My mind?"
"There are cancers so insidious in their nature that their verypulsations cannot be felt. Such cancers, madame, leave the ivorywhiteness of the skin unblemished, and putrefy not the firm, fair flesh,with their blue tints; the physician who bends over the patient'schest hears not, though he listens, the insatiable teeth of the diseasegrinding onward through the muscles, and the blood flows freely on; theknife has never been able to destroy, and rarely, even temporarily, todisarm the rage of these mortal scourges,--their home is in the mind,which they corrupt,--they gnaw the whole heart until it breaks. Such,madame, are the cancers fatal to queens; are you, too, free from theirscourge?"
Anne slowly raised her arm, dazzling in its perfect whiteness, and purein its rounded outlines as it was in the time of her earlier days.
"The evils to which you allude," she said, "are the condition of thelives of the high in rank upon earth, to whom Heaven has imparted mind.When those evils become too heavy to be borne, Heaven lightens theirburdens by penitence and confession. Thus, only, we lay down our burdenand the secrets that oppress us. But, forget not that the same graciousHeaven, in its mercy, apportions to their trials the strength of thefeeble creatures of its hand; and my strength has enabled me to bear myburden. For the secrets of others, the silence of Heaven is more thansufficient; for my own secrets, that of my confessor is enough."
"You are as courageous, madame, I see, as ever, against your enemies.You do not acknowledge your confidence in your friends?"
"Queens have no friends; if you have nothing further to say to me,--ifyou feel yourself inspired by Heaven as a prophetess--leave me, I pray,for I dread the future."
"I should have supposed," said the Beguine, resolutely, "that you wouldrather have dreaded the past."
Hardly had these words escaped her lips, than the queen rose up proudly."Speak," she cried, in a short, imperious tone of voice; "explainyourself briefly, quickly, entirely; or, if not--"
"Nay, do not threaten me, your majesty," said the Beguine, gently; "Icame here to you full of compassion and respect. I came here on the partof a friend."
"Prove that to me! Comfort, instead of irritating me."
"Easily enough, and your majesty will see who is friendly to you. Whatmisfortune has happened to your majesty during these three and twentyyears past--"
"Serious misfortunes, indeed; have I not lost the king?"
"I speak not of misfortunes of _that_ kind. I wish to ask you, if, sincethe birth of the king, any indiscretion on a friend's part has causedyour majesty the slightest serious anxiety, or distress?"
"I do not understand you," replied the queen, clenching her teeth inorder to conceal her emotion.
"I will make myself understood, then. Your majesty remembers that theking was born on the 5th of September, 1638, at a quarter past eleveno'clock."
"Yes," stammered out the queen.
"At half-past twelve," continued the Beguine, "the dauphin, who had beenbaptized by Monseigneur de Meaux in the king's and your own presence,was acknowledged as the heir of the crown of France. The king then wentto the chapel of the old Chateau de Saint-Germain, to hear the _Te Deum_chanted."
"Quite true, quite true," murmured the queen.
"Your majesty's conferment took place in the presence of Monsieur, hismajesty's late uncle, of the princes, and of the ladies attached tothe court. The king's physician, Bouvard, and Honore, the surgeon, werestationed in the ante-chamber; your majesty slept from three o'clockuntil seven, I believe."
"Yes, yes; but you tell me no more than every one else knows as well asyou and myself."
"I am now, madame, approaching that which very few persons areacquainted with. Very few persons, did I say, alas! I might say twoonly, for formerly there were but five in all, and, for many yearspast, the secret has been well preserved by the deaths of the principalparticipators in it. The late king sleeps now with his ancestors;Perronnette, the midwife, soon followed him; Laporte is alreadyforgotten."
The queen opened her lips as though to reply; she felt, beneath hericy hand, with which she kept her face half concealed, the beads ofperspiration on her brow.
"It was eight o'clock," pursued the Beguine; "the king was seated atsupper, full of joy and happiness; around him on all sides arose wildcries of delight and drinking of healths; the people cheered beneaththe balconies; the Swiss guards, the musketeers, and the royal guardswandered through the city, borne about in triumph by the drunkenstudents. Those boisterous sounds of general joy disturbed the dauphin,the future king of France, who was quietly lying in the arms of Madamede Hausac, his nurse, and whose eyes, as he opened them, and staredabout, might have observed two crowns at the foot of his cradle.Suddenly your majesty uttered a piercing cry, and Dame Perronnetteimmediately flew to your bedside. The doctors were dining in a room atsome distance from your chamber; the palace, deserted from the frequencyof the irruptions made into it, was without either sentinels or guards.The midwife, having questioned and examined your majesty, gave a suddenexclamation as if in wild astonishment, and taking you in her arms,bewildered almost out of her senses from sheer distress of mind,dispatched Laporte to inform the king that her majesty the queen-motherwished to see him in her room. Laporte, you are aware, madame, was a manof the most admirable calmness and presence of mind. He did not approachthe king as if he were the bearer of alarming intelligence and wishedto inspire the terror he himself experienced; besides, it was not avery terrifying intelligence which awaited the king. Therefore, Laporteappeared with a smile upon his lips, and approached the king's chair,saying to him--'Sire, the queen is very happy, and would be still moreso to see your majesty.' On that day, Louis XIII. would have givenhis crown away to the veriest beggar for a 'God bless you.' Animated,light-hearted, and full of gayety, the king rose from the table,and said to those around him, in a tone that Henry IV. might haveadopted,--'Gentlemen, I am going to see my wife.' He came to yourbeside, madame, at the very moment Dame Perronnette presented to him asecond prince, as beautiful and healthy as the former, and said--'Sire,Heaven will not allow the kingdom of France to fall into the femaleline.' The king, yielding to a first impulse, clasped the child in hisarms, and cried, 'Oh, Heaven, I thank Thee!'"
At th
is part of her recital, the Beguine paused, observing how intenselythe queen was suffering; she had thrown herself back in her chair, andwith her head bent forward and her eyes fixed, listened without seemingto hear, and her lips moving convulsively, either breathing a prayer toHeaven or imprecations on the woman standing before her.
"Ah! I do not believe that, if, because there could be but one dauphinin France," exclaimed the Beguine, "the queen allowed that child tovegetate, banished from his royal parents' presence, she was on thataccount an unfeeling mother. Oh, no, no; there are those alive who haveknown and witnessed the passionate kisses she imprinted on that innocentcreature in exchange for a life of misery and gloom to which statepolicy condemned the twin brother of Louis XIV."
"Oh! Heaven!" murmured the queen feebly.
"It is admitted," continued the Beguine, quickly, "that when the kingperceived the effect which would result from the existence of two sons,equal in age and pretensions, he trembled for the welfare of France,for the tranquillity of the state; and it is equally well known thatCardinal de Richelieu, by the direction of Louis XIII., thought overthe subject with deep attention, and after an hour's meditation in hismajesty's cabinet, he pronounced the following sentence:--'One princemeans peace and safety for the state; two competitors, civil war andanarchy.'"
The queen rose suddenly from her seat, pale as death, and her handsclenched together:
"You know too much," she said, in a hoarse, thick voice, "since yourefer to secrets of state. As for the friends from whom you haveacquired this secret, they are false and treacherous. You are theiraccomplice in the crime which is being now committed. Now, throw asideyour mask, or I will have you arrested by my captain of the guards. Donot think that this secret terrifies me! You have obtained it, you shallrestore it to me. Never shall it leave your bosom, for neither yoursecret nor your own life belong to you from this moment."
Anne of Austria, joining gesture to the threat, advanced a couple ofsteps towards the Beguine.
"Learn," said the latter, "to know and value the fidelity, the honor,and secrecy of the friends you have abandoned." And, then, suddenly shethrew aside her mask.
"Madame de Chevreuse!" exclaimed the queen.
"With your majesty, the sole living _confidante_ of the secret."
"Ah!" murmured Anne of Austria; "come and embrace me, duchesse. Alas!you kill your friend in thus trifling with her terrible distress."
And the queen, leaning her head upon the shoulder of the old duchesse,burst into a flood of bitter tears. "How young you are--still!" said thelatter, in a hollow voice; "you can weep!"
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