by Jean Plaidy
“You have been misinformed.”
“My eyes do not misinform me. I saw you. You were mincing along beside her, complimenting her like a young fop bent on seduction!”
“Does Monsieur think Madame would look my way?”
“It appears that she did.”
“Only because …”
“Never mind why she smiled on you! Why did you smile on her?”
“She is enchanting.”
“Armand!”
“Of what use to deny it?” said the Comte. “Of course I am in love with Madame. I was in love with her before anyone else saw how delightful she really was. I have always watched her; I have always understood her … known more of her than anyone….”
“How dare you stand there and tell me you love my wife … you who are my friend!”
“Monsieur … Philippe … I am sorry. I love you. I have loved you since we were boys. This is different. It should not come between us. You, as her husband, should understand that.”
“What has that to do with you and me?”
“You know her … how charming she is. I feel that I have helped to make her what she is today. I have helped to tear away that shyness, that gaucherie … but to me, even that was charming.”
“Armand! I will not have you talk thus before me. Do not imagine that my favor is for you alone. There are others who would be only too ready to take your place in my affections. You may go away for all I care. And, in fact, if you are thinking of making love to Henriette, go you certainly shall! Do not imagine you can make me jealous by preferring my wife!”
De Guiche threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. “I see this is an impossible situation. I shall leave the Court, I shall go to the country. I cannot stay here any longer.”
“Then go!” cried Philippe. “I have other friends to fill your place.”
So Armand de Guiche retired to the country, and all the Court whispered that he did so because Monsieur had discovered his love for Madame.
Louis had kept his part of the bargain. He had sought out the little Vallière. He enjoyed being kind to her because she was such a frightened little thing and overawed to have the attention of the King focused upon herself. She could not understand why, until other maids of honor told her that he was falling in love with her.
“It is impossible!” cried the little Vallière. “The King would never fall in love with me, when there are so many beauties of the Court all sighing for him.”
But Louis continued to seek her out. He would be by her side when the Court rode together; he would join in the dance with her, for she was present at those informal occasions at Fontainbleau; he would say: “Come, Mademoiselle de la Vallière, come and watch the piquet.”
Sometimes he himself would play, and when everything he did was applauded, La Vallière would clasp her hands together and her big brown eyes would be wide with adoration.
Louis thought: Poor child! She seeks too much to please. Oh, Henriette, if we could but be together! If only you were with me now!
The Queen was near her time. She spent much of the day lying in bed playing cards, in which she took great delight, still eating a great deal—far too much, it was said, for the good of the child.
Louis visited her as rarely as he could without calling attention to the fact that she bored him.
His mother was delighted because he was no longer constantly in the company of Henriette. She did not appear in public as frequently as before; she was content to leave state matters to Louis and his ministers. Like her daughter-in-law, her chief interest was in food and cards, although she had a love of the theater; she was content to keep certain ladies with her to gossip in her ruelle every night and bring her the latest scandals.
It was evening, and Louis was strolling through the grounds of Versailles with a little party of noblemen and ladies. Among the group was La Vallière.
The conversation was by no means profound; there were no literary allusions as there would doubtless have been had Henriette been present. The jokes were trivial and obvious, and everything the King said was greeted with hilarious laughter. He felt a longing to have Henriette beside him, to be free of these empty-headed sycophants.
Then he looked into the face of La Vallière who was close beside him. He knew that she was in love with him, and he was moved because of the sincerity of this young girl who could not hide her devotion; she was like a young fawn, fascinated yet apprehensive.
Louis realized that he had been faithful to Henriette ever since he had discovered that he loved her. He had had no mistress since then, and from those days when Madame de Beauvais had initiated him into the pleasure of the doux scavoir such delights had been a frequent need. He felt sexual desire upon him then like thirst in the desert or hunger after a long fast. It came to him as he stood there in the scented gardens with La Vallière beside him.
He looked at the girl, and felt pity for her. Pity! He had first felt that for Henriette, and in some ways this girl reminded him of Henriette—not as she was now, not Madame, but the shy Princess Henriette with whom he had once refused to dance.
He was unaware of the silence which had fallen about him, his large eyes had become a little glazed, and he was still looking at La Vallière.
He said, and although his voice sounded normal to him, it seemed to those about him—accustomed as they were to anticipating his moods—that it held a note of high-pitched excitement: “Mademoiselle de la Vallière, have you seen the new summer house I have had built near the ornamental grotto?”
La Vallière stammered, as she always did when directly addressed by the King: “N-no, Sire. Why … yes … I believe I have, Sire.” “Then let us go and make sure that you have.”
By the time they reached the grotto the party which had accompanied them had lingered here and there, and there was none left but La Vallière and her King. They went through into the new summer house where were set out gilded chairs and a velvet-covered couch—scarlet, and decorated with golden fleurs-de-lis.
“So … you see it now,” he said, and taking her hands he drew her to him and kissed her.
La Vallière trembled. The frightened fawn … the eager fawn … thought Louis. It is Henriette whom I love, but she is my brother’s wife, and this timid little Vallière is so eager to be loved.
Armand de Guiche soon returned to the Court. He found that his longing to see Henriette forced him to return. So he asked Philippe’s pardon, which was graciously accorded him, and he became again the close friend of Henriette’s husband in order that he might not be banished from Henriette’s presence.
Henriette had an opportunity to speak a few words in private with the King while they danced together.
She said: “So we have produced the desired effect. There is talk of you and the little Vallière.”
“Is that so?” said Louis.
“And I have heard my name is mentioned with that of de Guiche.”
“I like that not,” said Louis.
“Nor do I like to hear it said that you are in love with La Vallière.”
“You could not believe that I would love anyone now … that I ever could, after I came to love you!”
“I hope not, Louis. I hope your love for me is like mine for you.”
“Mine is infinite,” declared the King; but he avoided meeting her eyes. He wished that he had not fallen into temptation with La Vallière. He wished that he did not keep remembering her little fluttering hands, her cries of protest and pleasure.
It should not happen again; he had promised himself that. He had not meant it to happen that second or third time, but it had been almost impossible to avoid it; she was so ready, so shy, so adoring. It would have been churlish not to. It was not love he had for the little one, he assured himself; it was pity … and the desire to honor her.
Henriette said: “Armand de Guiche came to my rooms this day, disguised as a fortune-teller. He is very bold. I had forbidden him to come near me. I thought there had been enough
scandal, and I had no wish for more. Montalais, one of my maids of honor, came to me and said there was a teller of fortunes without, who had great things to tell me; and when I had him brought in I discovered it was de Guiche. I recognized him when he raised those mournful eyes to my face. I sent him off at once. I was thankful that none of the others present knew who my fortune-teller was.”
“The insolent fellow!” exclaimed the King.
“Do not be hard on him, Louis. We chose to make use of him, remember.”
Louis, heavy with the guilt of his affair with La Vallière, found that he was feigning anger against de Guiche which was greater than he felt. But Henriette was smiling tenderly; she felt it was wonderful to know that Louis could love her so much.
In the streets they were singing songs about the amours of the Court. Madame was loved by Monsieur’s bel ami; the King was neglecting his wife for one of Madame’s maids of honor.
Mademoiselle Montalais, who loved to make mischief and knew more of her mistress’s affairs than Henriette realized, whispered to her one day, “La Vallière is absentminded these days … They say it is her preoccupation with the King. She is afraid because she has surrendered her chastity to the King and, like all the pious, she seeks to justify her actions and tells herself that it would have been worse to have been a disloyal subject and refused him than to offend the laws of the church by lying with him in the summer-house.”
“There is always gossip,” said Henriette.
“There is some truth in this, I’ll warrant,” said Montalais. “I have heard La Vallière saying her prayers. She asks for courage to resist when the next time comes, and then in the same breath she seems to be asking that the next time may come soon … I could never endure pious harlots.”
“I cannot believe this of … La Vallière!”
“Madame, it is true. The whole Court knows it. Though doubtless it is kept from you on account of your friendship with His Majesty.”
Henriette dismissed the woman. Could it be true? Little La Vallière … the last person worthy of him, and yet her very timidity might make an appeal to Louis! She, Henriette, who loved him, knew him well.
Henriette hesitated to face the truth, yet she could not bear to remain in ignorance. She sent for La Vallière, and when the girl stood trembling before her, she said: “Mademoiselle de la Vallière, I have heard gossip concerning you. I do not want to believe that it is true. In fact I find it hard to believe, but I must ask you to tell me the truth. You are—as one of my maids of honor—in my care, and I should not wish to think that you had behaved wantonly while in my household.”
Before the girl was able to speak she had revealed the truth to Henriette. First a wild anger possessed her—anger against Louis, against this girl, against herself for being such a fool as to recommend the girl to his notice, against Fate, which had been so cruel to her.
She stood trembling, her face pale, her hands clenched together; she could not look at the girl.
La Vallière had thrown herself at Henriette’s feet and was sobbing out her confession.
“Madame, I did not mean it to happen. I could not believe that His Majesty would ever care for me. I know that I have done wrong … but His Majesty insisted and … I could not refuse.”
“You could not refuse!” cried Henriette, pushing the girl from her. “You lie! You … you lured him with your seeming innocence. You feigned shyness … modesty … reluctance …”
“His Majesty is so…so handsome,” stammered La Vallière. “Madame, I tried hard, but I could not resist him. No one could resist him once he had made up his mind. Even you … you yourself … could not have resisted him … had you been in my position.”
Henriette cried in anguished fury: “Be silent, you wretched girl! You lying, hypocritical wanton, be silent!”
“Madame, I implore you. If you will speak to the king. If you could ask him to explain how it happened …”
Henriette laughed. “I … speak to the King … about you! You are of no importance to His Majesty. You are one of many … many!”
Henriette was trying to shut out of her mind pictures of Louis and this girl together; she could not. They would not be shut out. She saw Louis—passionate, eager, refusing to be denied.
Oh God, she thought, I cannot bear this. I could kill this silly girl who has had that for which I so longed. I hate her … I hate Louis for deceiving me. I hate myself for my folly. What a fool I have been! I gave him to her.
But she must be calm. All her life she had had to be calm. No one must know how she suffered. She must not be the laughingstock of the Court.
She said coldly: “Get up, Mademoiselle de la Vallière. Go to your apartment. Prepare to leave. I will not allow you to remain another night in my household. Not another night, I tell you. Do you think I shall let you stay here, corrupting others! You … with your sham humility! Prepare to leave at once.”
La Vallière raised her tear-filled eyes to Henriette’s face. “Madame, where shall I go? I have nowhere to go. Please Madame, let me stay here until I can see the King. Please see His Majesty yourself. He will tell you how he insisted …”
Henriette turned away; she was afraid that the girl would see the anguish in her face. “I have said Go!” she told her. “I never want to see your face again.”
La Vallière rose, curtsied and hurried from the room.
When she had gone, Henriette threw herself onto a couch. She did not weep; she had no tears. There was no happiness left for her in the world. She had been brutal to La Vallière but her jealous fury had commanded her to be so. She hated herself and the world. She understood that Louis could not maintain their rarified devotion; he was not made for such idealism; he was young and lusty; he needed physical satisfaction. It was wrong to blame La Vallière, but how could she bear to see the girl daily!
“I wish I were dead!” she murmured. “I can see that life has nothing to offer me.”
Her restless fingers plucked at the golden lilies embroidered on the velvet of the couch, but she did not see them; she saw nothing but Louis and La Vallière, locked in a lovers’ embrace.
Montalais brought her the news.
“The King is distracted, Madame. He has heard of the flight of La Vallière. He has himself gone in pursuit of her. Who would have thought that His Majesty would have cared so much for our silly little Vallière!”
“So,” said Henriette, “he has gone in pursuit of her!”
“He is determined to find her,” continued Montalais. “He is urging all his friends to join in the search. There will be rewards for those who uncover the hiding place of His Majesty’s little inamorata.”
“His Majesty has not mentioned the girl’s flight to me.”
“Has he not, Madame?” said Montalais, not without a trace of malice. “That is indeed strange. One would have thought you might have been able to tell him something of the girl’s possible whereabouts, considering she was in your service.”
Henriette said: “Doubtless the matter slipped his memory when he was with me.”
“Doubtless, Madame,” said Montalais.
They know! decided Henriette. They all know of my love for the King. They know he has turned from me to my maid of honor!
A calèche drew up outside the Tuileries. From it alighted a man in a long concealing cloak and hood, and with him was a shrinking girl. The man demanded audience of Madame.
There were some who wanted to know how he dared storm the Tuileries at such an hour and peremptorily demand to see Madame d’Orléans.
But when the man threw back his hood and revealed his features, those who had asked the question fell on to their knees before him. They hastened to Madame’s apartment to tell her that the King was on his way to see her.
Louis was already there, and Henriette saw that the shrinking creature who accompanied him was La Vallière.
Louis waved aside ceremony as Henriette would have knelt. He took her hand, looking earnestly into her eyes. “I have foun
d little Mademoiselle de la Vallière,” he said. “She was in a convent near Saint-Cloud whither she had taken refuge. Poor child! She was in a state of great distress. I know you will help me, Henriette.”
“I … help Your Majesty!”
“I ask you to take her back into your service, to look after her, as your maid of honor. I want it to be as though she has never run away.”
He turned to La Vallière, and Henriette felt as though her heart was breaking as she saw the tender looks he bestowed upon the frightened girl. Louis was so frank; he was incapable of deceit; he could not hide from her the fact that he was in love with this girl.
This is too much to be borne! thought Henriette. It is more than I can endure. Can it be that he has no understanding? Can he be as obtuse as he seems?
“Your Majesty,” she said, steeling herself to speak calmly, “I cannot take this girl back. She admits that she has been guilty of an intrigue with a gentleman in a high place at Court.”
“It was no fault of hers,” said Louis.
“Your Majesty, I did not understand that she was the victim of rape.”
Louis’ eyes were full of anguish. He loved Henriette; she was the perfect woman, he told himself. If she could have been his wife he would have asked nothing more of life. But she was the wife of his brother; and between them there could never be the kind of love which was so necessary to him. His eyes pleaded with her: Understand me, Henriette. I love you. Ours is an ideal relationship. It is unique. You are my love. And the affair with this girl … it is nothing. It happens today and is forgotten tomorrow. But I am fond of her. She is so small and helpless. I have seduced her, and I cannot desert her now.
Poor Louis! He was so simple, so full of the wish to do right.
Help me, Henriette, said his pleading eyes. I beg of you show me the greatness of your love for me by helping me now. Surely love that exists between us is beyond the pettiness of an affair like this.
How I love him! thought Henriette. I love him for his simplicity. He has not yet grown up. Our great Sun God is but a child.
“Louis …” she murmured brokenly. “Louis …”
