While she ate, her mother looked at her earnestly. She stroked the fine curling chestnut hair.
“Such pretty hair,” she said. “And you are pretty, my dear Louise. Very pretty. Different from the Court ladies, I know; but sometimes it is a good thing to be different.”
When her mother left her, Louise had lain staring at the canopy of her bed.
She was to go to Court; she was to do her utmost to please the King. There was something her parents were trying to tell her. What was it?
She quickly discovered.
They talked constantly of the King. The most handsome man in all France, they said; and what a pleasure it was to have a young King on the throne, a King who looked as a King should look. They recalled his magnificence at his coronation; what a fine sight it had been to see him in the ceremonial cloak of purple velvet embroidered with the golden lilies of France, and the great crown of Charlemagne on his noble head. All who had watched in the great Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Rheims had said that this was more than a King; it was a god come among them. He was pink and white and gold, this King of theirs; and he had a nature to match his face—benign and beautiful. It was a pleasure for all to serve him—man and woman alike.
They recalled his love for Marie Mancini, how idealistically he had wanted to marry her; and he would have done so too, had not his mother and Cardinal Mazarin set themselves against the marriage. Of course it would have been quite impossible for the King of France to marry a woman who was not of royal birth, but did it not show what a kindly, what a charming nature he had, to think of the marriage?
What did the King look like? Anyone who wanted to know that only had to read the romances of the day. It was said that, when she described her heroes, Mademoiselle de Scudéry used Louis XIV as her model.
“He is married now, our King,” said Louise regretfully; for she had begun to picture herself in the place of Marie Mancini, and she believed that had she been that young woman she would have married the King in spite of his mother, the unpopular Anne of Austria, and Cardinal Mazarin who was equally unpopular. She and Louis would have conspired together to bring about that marriage.
Marriage with a King! It was foolish to dream such dreams.
“He is married now, yes,” said her mother. “He is married to the dumpy little Spanish Princess, Marie Thérèse. She looked well enough in her wedding garments. But divested of them! Oh, I shudder for our beloved King, he who is such a connoisseur of beauty. There will be others.” Her mother lifted her shoulders and smiled tenderly. “How could it be otherwise? I have heard that, when he was very young, he loved Madame de Beauvais.” She laughed aloud. “Madame de Beauvais! Years older than he was—a fat woman—and I have heard that she has but one eye. Yet … he has never forgotten her. He has shown her great favor. There is an indication of the kind of King we have. A King who never forgets to reward those who have pleased him … even if it was only for a short time and long ago.”
Now Louise began to understand. She could not make a brilliant marriage because she had no suitable dot; but if she could become the good friend of the King, all sorts of honors might fall to her; and there were many men who then might wish to share her fortunes. How much more desirable was a royal mistress—even a discarded one—than a penniless virgin!
So to Court came Louise. She was pretty enough, but this prettiness was due to her youthful appearance. Her hair was lovely, so was her complexion, unpitted by the pox and unmarked by any blemish. Her round plump face gave her an innocent expression rare at this time, and this was appealing. Her eyes were rather closely set, and there was a suggestion at times of a cast in one of them. However, she was accounted a pretty young girl; and, because her appearance was not one of conventional beauty, this brought her some attention.
She had been thoroughly schooled in social etiquette, both in her home and in the convent, and as a result of her training was possessed of a natural grace. Her education had not been neglected and she was considered to be a cultured young woman, though lacking in the imagination which would have made her an outstandingly clever one. Louise then, when she came to the Court, was a well-bred, well-educated girl with some pretensions to good looks, certain graceful charm, and shrewd ideas, beneath that calm and babyish brow, of making a comfortable existence for Mademoiselle de Kéroualle.
Louise was a born spy. Her poverty and pressing need had nourished this quality in her. She told herself that it was a matter of great urgency that she must understand all that was going on about her; she had no time to spare. She was already twenty, no longer very young; a place at Court might not remain open to her. Therefore she quickly grasped the state of affairs at St. Cloud.
Henriette d’Orléans, the wife of the King’s brother, and sister to the King of England, was a charming woman—quick-witted, clever, and though no conventional beauty, one of the most attractive women in the Court of le Roi Soleil. Here, thought Louise, was a good model for herself. She studied Henriette and, watching her closely, being her intimate companion, she began to probe her secrets.
Not that Monsieur—Henriette’s husband—made any secret of the life they led together. Monsieur had his mignons, his dear friends who meant more to him than any woman could. Monsieur was the most conceited man in France and Louise discovered that his wife pleased him very much in one respect. There were occasions when he felt proud of her.
Louise understood the meaning of this one day when Louis himself paid a visit to St. Cloud.
This was the first time Louise had seen him. She was prepared. She was looking younger than ever; she kept close to her mistress. Here was her first chance to shine before His Majesty. She wore the most youthful of her gowns and her magnificent hair was elaborately dressed but falling in curls over her shoulders, as a young girl would wear it. She was sure she did not look more than fifteen.
The King came into the apartment, tall and as handsome as he had been made out to be, dressed in cloth of gold trimmed with black lace, diamonds flashing in his hat; he strode to Henriette.
She would have knelt, but he would not allow her to do so. He was agitated, Louise guessed.
He said: “No ceremony, dear sister.”
“Your Majesty has urgent business with me,” said Henriette. “I had hoped to present my new maid of honor, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle.”
Louis’ eyes flickered lightly over Louise.
She came forward and fell to her knees.
He said: “Welcome to the Court, my dear. Welcome.”
She lifted her eyes to his face; this was the moment for which she had longed and hoped. But he was looking at the Duchesse.
“You wish to speak to me alone?” asked Henriette.
“I do wish that,” said the King.
It was the signal for attendants to retire.
One of her companions put her arms about Louise’s shoulders. “Don’t be hurt, my child,” she said. “It is always thus. When he comes, he has no eyes for anyone but Madame. Moreover if you would have pleased him you should not have seemed such a very little girl. His Majesty once liked matrons—now he likes no one but Madame.”
After that she began to understand a good deal.
Here was intrigue which interested Louise, not only because it was of vital importance to her, but because intrigue in any form fascinated her.
When her mistress danced in such a sprightly way, when she joked so readily, when she appeared to be gay, she was really full of sadness; and it was due to the fact that she had married the wrong man—Monsieur—when she loved the King himself.
Louise did not give up hope of attracting the King.
There was a great deal of gossip concerning Louis and his sister-in-law. Louise discovered that both the King’s mother, Anne of Austria, and Henriette’s mother, Queen Henrietta Maria, had pointed this out to the lovers.
It was at this time that the King began to show a little interest in that foolish and perfectly unworthy creature, Louise de la Vallière.
&nbs
p; How could he look at the silly creature, Louise de Kéroualle wondered; then she began to understand. It was Madame who had decided that he should pay attention to La Vallière, Madame who had selected the girl. Louise de la Vallière was just the sort whom a woman who was in love would choose, if choose she must. Madame could feel confident that the King would never fall in love with the silly creature.
If only she had chosen me! thought Louise. How different it would have been then!
She thought of her family in their Breton home. They would hear the rumors from the Court. Such rumors always travelled fast. They would shake their heads and perhaps have to sell more of their possessions. Would they say: “Is it worth the expense of keeping Louise at Court?”
One day Madame called Louise to her and said: “Louise, would you like to accompany me to England?”
“To England, Madame?” answered Louise. “Indeed I would!”
“It will be but a short visit.” Henriette had turned away. There was, had she known it, no need for her to curb her tongue; she could have said all that was in her mind, because Louise knew it already.
Louise knew that she longed to get away from her husband, that she longed to see her brother who wrote to her so often and so lovingly. Louise was fully aware of the great affection between her mistress and the King of England. She had heard Monsieur, in one of his wild quarrels with Madame, declare that the love between his wife and her brother was more than that which it was meet and proper for two of such a relationship to share. She knew that, white-faced and horrified, Henriette had cried out to him that he was a liar, and that at that moment her self-control had broken.
Louise knew these things. She had a good pair of ears, and saw no reason why they should not be pressed into service. Those shrewd little eyes too were sharp. Louise trained them to miss nothing.
So if Henriette had decided to break free from that iron control which she kept on her feelings, and blurt out the truth to little Louise de Kéroualle, it would not have mattered. She would have told Louise very little that she did not already know.
“We shall stay no longer than two weeks,” said Henriette. “My brothers will meet me at Dover. I doubt I shall have time to visit the Capital.”
“Monsieur will not part with you for longer than that, Madame,” said Louise.
Henriette looked at her quickly, but there was no trace of malice in the babyish face. She is a child, thought Henriette, who was unaware that she was twenty years old—not so very much younger than herself, Louise, looking so unconcernedly youthful, conveyed such an appearance of innocence. I must try to make a match for her before she loses that innocence which is so charming, thought the kindly Madame. May it be a happier one than my own, and may she preserve that faith in life for as long as it shall exist.
“My brother is most eager for the visit,” said Henriette, and her face softened. “It is years since I have seen him.”
“I have heard, Madame, that a great affection exists between you and the King of England.”
“’Tis true, Louise. My childhood was lived in such uncertain times. I saw so little of him. I was with my mother, a beggar almost at the Court of France, and my brother, the King of England, but a wandering exile. We saw little of each other, but how we treasured those meetings! And we have kept our love for one another alive in our letters. Hardly a week passes without our hearing one from the other. I think one of the most unhappy periods of my life was when France and England were not good friends.”
“All France, and I doubt not all England, knows of your love for your brother, Madame. And all is well between England and France at this present time.”
Henriette nodded. “And I hope to make that bond of friendship stronger, Louise.”
Louise knew. She had been present on those occasions when King Louis had visited Henriette. Sometimes they forgot she was present. If they saw her they would think: Oh, it is but the little Louise de Kéroualle—a sweet child but a baby, a little simpleton. She will not understand what we talk of.
So it was that often they disclosed certain secret matters in her presence; often they betrayed themselves.
They loved, those two. Louis would have married Henriette had he not married dull Marie Thérèse before Charles Stuart regained his kingdom. Louise had heard it said that, before that time, Madame had been a shy girl who had not shown to advantage against the plump pink and white beauties so admired by the King of France. But when her brother regained his throne, Henriette’s gaucheries had dropped from her and she emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis, it was said—brilliant, exquisite, the most graceful, charming, amusing, and clever woman at the Court. Then Louis had realized too late what he had missed; now he contented himself with the shyness of La Vallière and the flamboyant beauty of Montespan, in an effort to make up for all he had lost in Madame.
This interested Louise and she rejoiced therefore when she was chosen to accompany her mistress into England.
So she travelled with Madame to Dover, and all the pomp of a royal visit accompanied them.
She realized that Henriette was uneasy; and she guessed that it was due to the treaty which she was to induce her brother to sign.
Louis had prevailed upon Henriette to do this, and Louise surmised that the treaty, which would be signed at Dover, was one to which the King of France was very eager to have the King of England’s signature. Henriette was uncertain. Louise knew by her abstracted air that she was torn between her love for her brother and the King of France; and Louise knew that the King of France had won. For all her professed love for Charles of England, Henriette was working for the King of France whom she regarded in the light of a lover.
There was one thing to learn from this: emotions should never become involved when it was a question of one’s position in society. For all her cleverness, for all her wit, Henriette of Orléans was nothing but a weak woman, torn by her love for two men.
And so they came to Dover and were greeted, not only by the tall dark King of England, but by his brother, the Duke of York, and his natural son, the Duke of Monmouth.
There were banquets and dancing. The treaty was signed and dispatched to France. The days sped by. Henriette seemed to be indulging in frantic gaiety.
She loved her brother undoubtedly; yet, wondered Louise, how far had she sacrificed him to Louis?
She longed to know. The thought of such plots and counterplots was highly fascinating.
There came the time when they were due to leave the shores of England. Louise would never forget that occasion. It was a moment full of significance in her life, for it was then that new avenues of adventure were opened to her.
The King of England was looking at her with the approval which she had sought in vain to arouse in the King of France. He was referring to her as a brighter jewel than any in the casket which his sister was offering him. Those dark eyes, passionate and slumberous, were fixed upon her. Louise realized then that the King desired her.
This in itself was no unusual thing. The King of England desired many women, and it was rarely that his desires went unfulfilled. Yet Louise, the daughter of a poor Breton gentleman, had already deeply considered what the admiration of a King could mean.
She was blushing now, because the King was asking that she might stay behind in England, and her mistress was telling him that she had her duty to the child’s parents.
Child! They seemed unaware that she was twenty years old.
Louise, considering her age, was filled with sudden panic. What if she failed to fulfill her parents’ hopes? Would she have to return to the convent; perhaps make a marriage which would not lift her from the poverty from which she had determined to escape?
The admiration of kings could do a great deal for a woman. Her thoughts went to Louise de la Vallière—but all were aware that La Vallière was a simpleton who knew not how to exploit her lover. If ever the time came for Louise de Kéroualle to exploit such a lover, she would know full well how to do this to the bes
t advantage to herself.
There was little time left, but she determined to do all in her power to see that the King of England did not forget her. She kept near her mistress because she knew that where Henriette was, there would Charles be.
And then there was that last encounter when she had stood before him.
Louis might like matrons, but Charles was clearly attracted by more youthful charms.
There was no doubt that he was attracted by her. He took her hands, and he spoke to her in her native French. He kissed her with a mingled passion and tenderness, and he told her he would not forget her and that he hoped one day she would come again to England, and that he would teach her the customs of the English.
She railed against the ill fortune which had brought her face-to-face with Charles such a short time before she was due to leave.
She longed to tell him that her parents would have no objection to her staying at the Court of England; that they had hoped she would become the mistress of the King of France, so they would not wish to refuse her to the King of England.
But how could she say these things? She could only stand on the ship, waving farewell and standing close to her mistress, so that the last Charles saw of the departing company was his dear sister and her maid of honor who had so charmed him.
Louis welcomed them back with great rejoicing. He was delighted with his dear Duchesse. At all the balls and masques he was at her side.
On one of these occasions, Henriette turned to the girl beside her and said to Louis: “Louise greatly impressed my brother.”
“Was that so?” said Louis.
“Indeed yes. He begged me to leave her with him in England.”
Louis looked with amusement at Louise, who had cast down her eyes.
“And did you wish to stay, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle?” he asked.
“If Madame had stayed, I should have wished to, Sire,” said Louise. “My wish is to serve Madame.”
“That is as it should be,” said Louis. “Serve her well. She deserves good service.”
His gaze was kind and doting. His mother was dead now; so was Madame’s mother, and he and Madame could not be reproved because they were so much together. None would dare reprove Louis now.
Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord Page 12