“Again I warn you that as a good brother I shall take a dislike to de Guiche.”
“Ah, sire, do not, I entreat you, adopt either the sympathies or the dislikes of Monsieur. Remain king; better for yourself and for everyone else.”
“You jest charmingly, Madame; and I can well understand how the people you attack must adore you.”
“And is that the reason why you, sire, whom I had regarded as my defender, are about to join these who persecute me?” said Madame.
“I your persecutor! Heaven forbid!”
“Then,” she continued, languishingly, “grant me a favor.”
“Whatever you wish.”
“Let me return to England.”
“Never, never!” exclaimed Louis XIV.
“I am a prisoner, then?”
“In France—if France is a prison—yes.”
“What must I do, then?”
“I will tell you. Instead of devoting yourself to friendships which are somewhat unstable, instead of alarming us by your retirement, remain always in our society, do not leave us, let us live as a united family. M. de Guiche is certainly very amiable; but if, at least, we do not possess his wit—”
“Ah, sire, you know very well you are pretending to be modest.”
“No, I swear to you. One may be a king, and yet feel that he possesses fewer chances of pleasing than many other gentlemen.”
“I am sure, sire, that you do not believe a single word you are saying.”
The king looked at Madame tenderly, and said, “Will you promise me one thing?”
“What is it?”
“That you will no longer waste upon strangers, in your own apartments, the time which you owe us. Shall we make an offensive and defensive alliance against the common enemy?”
“An alliance with you, sire?”
“Why not? Are you not a sovereign power?”
“But are you, sire, a reliable ally?”
“You shall see, Madame.”
“And when shall this alliance commence?”
“This very day.”
“I will draw up the treaty, and you shall sign it.”
“Blindly.”
“Then, sire, I promise you wonders; you are the star of the court, and when you make your appearance, everything will be resplendent.”
“Oh, Madame, Madame,” said Louis XIV, “you know well that there is no brilliancy that does not proceed from yourself, and that if I assume the sun as my device, it is only an emblem.”
“Sire, you flatter your ally, and you wish to deceive her,” said Madame, threatening the king with her finger menacingly raised.
“What! you believe I am deceiving you, when I assure you of my affection?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you so suspicious?”
“One thing.”
“What is it? I shall indeed be unhappy if I do not overcome it.”
“That one thing in question, sire, is not in your power, not even in the power of Heaven.”
“Tell me what it is.”
“The past.”
“I do not understand, Madame,” said the king, precisely because he had understood her but too well.
The princess took his hand in hers. “Sire,” she said, “I have had the misfortune to displease you for so long a period, that I have almost the right to ask myself today why you were able to accept me as a sister-in-law.”
“Displease me! You have displeased me?”
“Nay, do not deny it, for I remember it well.”
“Our alliance shall date from today,” exclaimed the king, with a warmth that was not assumed. “You will not think any more of the past, will you? I myself am resolved that I will not. I shall always remember the present; I have it before my eyes; look.” And he led the princess before a mirror, in which she saw herself reflected, blushing and beautiful enough to overcome a saint.
“It is all the same,” she murmured; “it will not be a very worthy alliance.”
“Must I swear?” inquired the king, intoxicated by the voluptuous turn the whole conversation had taken.
“Oh, I will not refuse to witness a resounding oath,” said Madame; “it has always the semblance of security.”
The king knelt upon a footstool and took Madame’s hand. She, with a smile that no painter could ever succeed in depicting, and which a poet might only imagine, gave him both her hands, in which he hid his burning face. Neither of them could utter a syllable. The king felt Madame withdraw her hands, caressing his face while she did so. He rose immediately and left the apartment. The courtiers remarked his heightened color, and concluded that the scene had been a stormy one. The Chevalier de Lorraine, however, hastened to say, “Nay, be comforted, gentlemen, His Majesty is always pale when he is angry.”
109
The Advisers
The king left Madame in a state of agitation it would have been difficult even for himself to have explained. It is impossible, in fact, to depict the secret play of those strange sympathies which, suddenly and apparently without any cause, are excited, after many years passed in the greatest calmness and indifference, by two hearts destined to love each other. Why had Louis formerly disdained, almost hated, Madame? Why did he now find the same woman so beautiful, so captivating? And why, not only were his thoughts occupied about her, but still more, why were they so continuously occupied about her? Why, in fact, had Madame, whose eyes and mind were sought for in another direction, shown during the last week towards the king a semblance of favor which encouraged the belief of still greater regard. It must not be supposed that Louis proposed to himself any plan of seduction; the tie which united Madame to his brother was, or at least seemed to him, an insuperable barrier; he was even too far removed from that barrier to perceive its existence. But on the downward path of those passions in which the heart rejoices, towards which youth impels us, no one can decide where to stop, not even the man who has in advance calculated all the chances of his own success or another’s submission. As far as Madame was concerned, her regard for the king may easily be explained: she was young, a coquette, and ardently fond of admiration. Hers was one of
