All was quiet in the chateau; and those who had neither hopes nor wishes to keep them awake, were already in the arms of sleep. The gentle La Vallière, however, as had been her custom of late, sat up thinking of her lover. Half undressed, she lay reclining in an arm chair, wrapt in visionary dreams. She heard something move without, but took no notice of it. The door was gently opened, she looked up, and the next moment Louis was at her feet. A loud shriek escaped the terrified girl. "For God's sake, be still, or we both are lost!"

"Oh, sire! leave me," cried La Vallière, with a sunken and timorous voice, at the same time trying to disengage herself from Louis, who held her knees firmly clasped.

"I leave you not, my dearest girl." "Oh, God! sire at such a time-I must call."

"Well, then, call: precipitate yourself with me into the gulph, that I perish."

"Sire, can you wish my shame ? Were any one to divine that you were here! should any one have seen you enter!"

"If that is all, calm yourself, my dear girl. No human eye hath seen me enter; no one can divine it." Curiosity now became the mantle in which modesty veiled itself. La Vallière was inquisitive as to how the king had contrived to gain an entrance, without being seen, Louis openly acknowledged his obligations to Artigny; and was thereby the gainer, inasmuch as the broken accents of embarrassment soon passed into a connected debate.

"Artigny!" exclaimed La Vallière, half aloud. "Oh, the traitoress! (she added more softly), she shall suffer for

this."

Louis smiled. "But then you will allow me to reward the sufferer, will you not?" And in truth, he afterwards granted her a considerable pension.

Suddenly the countenance of the fair charmer assumed a different aspect. "True, sire! you are king. It is for you to will,-not for me. You have the right to stay."

Louis steadfastly regarded her for a moment. "So, thus a king is told to begone!" He cast his eyes once more on the fair one, and turning round, went towards the door.

The poor girl trembled like an aspen

The king stopped at the door. "Am I to take with me the conviction that you are averse to me?"

"Sire," she replied, sitting back in her chair, "you wrong a heart that does not deserve to be wronged, at least, by you."

She hid her face. Louis went up to her, and seizing her right hand with both his hands, pressed it to his burning lips.

"Thou unspeakably beloved! if you believe in my love, why not believe in my honour? Why am I king? why can I not share with you the whole gains of my life? May the sceptre fall from the hands of him who could steal a jewel which love did not grant him! Since that happy night, when I over, heard you in the grove

Scarcely had he uttered these words, than the poor girl, starting up, looked at him as if petrified, whilst the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

"Alas!" cried she, again hiding her face, "what a miserable creature am I !" Louis, with his hand resting on the small table beside them, bent down to her. "My dearest!" do you, then, deem it a disgrace to love me?"

She neither answered nor looked up; Louis continued-

"Will you not accord me the joy which lightens the weight of the crown, of knowing that there is one pure spirit that can look on me, without regarding the star that conceals my heart? or was it merely the feeling of a moment, that gave me some little worth in your eyes? Is there nothing left of that charming fervour with which you uttered those memorable words in the grove? Nothing?"

She rose from her chair. A constrained composure was visible in her features, which were working with the disquietude of passion.

"Those words, sire, I confess, bore a two-fold interpretation; or rather, they expressed what I thought, and only what, under the circumstances, they could express. For in truth, sire, you dance better than any of the lords at court. You dance so beautifully!"

The king was silent. The eyes of the poor girl wandered about in the greatest confusion, whilst the blood mounted to her cheek. After a few moments, Louis, still retaining her hand, proceeded,

"So, 't is only my dancing that can please you, not myself?-not my heart? Does a girl of your feeling see in men nothing better than whether they dance well or not? And perhaps even now you do not see what I must be to you if I am to be happy?"

He first pressed her hand to his heart; and then, without waiting for an answer, falling down before her chair, drew her, unconsciously forgetting to offer resistance, towards him, whilst his lips imprinted burning kisses on her cheek.

66 Here!" exclaimed Louis, still clasping her in his arms, "here I am happy! From this spot not even armies should drive me!"

"Monarch!" said La Vallière, laying her left hand on his shoulder, "why speak of armies?-what need of them? Shew your enemies your heart!"

A pause of a few minutes succeeded. "Rise, sire, I pray you," exclaimed La Vallière, her left hand at the same time gliding from the king's shoulder into her lap, to the right, which Louis held.

La Vallière made a motion to get up; thereby raising Louis as of his own accord from the ground.. Louis, taking a chair, seated himself beside her; and now the sweet emotions of refusal and consent, doubts and assurances, were renewed in every form. No attempted liberty disturbed the serenity of that happy night. The morning began to dawn.

La Vallière looked through the window.

"It is time, sire."

"It is yet early, my dearest, especially here in the château, where love awakens few before the time. Let me see those eyes by the morning twilight. This day must participate in the innocent joys of the past night. A moment longer, my dear girl!"

"Sire, if the day were to betray the night! See! with every stroke of the pendulum the hand of the clock becomes brighter. It seems as if the day would outstrip itself."

The king rose, and La Vallière with him; she leaning against the window, and he with his right arm round her waist. A smile played round her lips, whilst her eyes besought him to leave her.

"Try what?" exclaimed Louis impatiently.

La Vallière was silent. "Dear girl," he continued, "your silence proves that even you can devise no other means for my seeing you so safe and so free from interruption. So, my love, I will re. turn, eh? or do you again distrust my

honour?"

"As if I could do that!"

Louis, taking hold of both her hands, suddenly exclaimed, "A new life now rises within me, with the sun which the morning dawn yonder announces !"

At that moment there was a gentle tapping at the door; and, with many excuses on her lips, the cautious Artigny entered to inform the king that it was now time to return to his own apartment.

From this time forward Louis lived and moved in the very fulness of love. The path over the leaden gutter conducted him night after night to his beloved. Night after night was thus passed away in mutual endearment, and both parties separated as innocent as they had

met.

Both

But the report soon spread abroad that a well-dressed man was seen frequently at night walking along the leaden gutters of the roof; and it at length came to the ears of the Lady Maréchale, the Duchess de Navailles. The duchess immediately applied for worldly advice on the subject to her husband, and for spiritual advice to her confessor. confessor and husband recommended the discipline of the cloister. All at once an iron railing was seen before the windows of Artigny and La Vallière. The two girls exclaimed loudly against this public injury to their character, and as their complaints were considered well-grounded, in order to remedy them, a railing was placed before the windows of every lady of the court.

"So, they wish to tyrannize over me?" exclaimed Louis, as soon as this last circumstance came to his knowledge; sovereign in my own kingdom, and not so much as master im my own house? Who ordered the windows to be barred ?"

The looks of the courtiers were chained to the ground. The pride, as well as the magnanimity of the king, was well known. No one dared to betray a lady standing in such universal respect as the Duchess de Navailles.

"I, sire, gave the orders;" the duchess herself confessed, whilst standing before the king.

"Who instructed you to that effect?" "My duty!"

"Does your duty consist in disobedience to my wishes?"

"You had given no commands on the subject, sire!"

"But you knew that you were doing that which would be displeasing to me.' "I knew that I was doing your Majesty a service."

Louis was about to speak; but, fearful of entering into a dispute with an elderly matron on the duties of the married state, became confused, and was silent. The duchess continued

66

"Sire, I have deserved your thanks, not your ill-will. If you wish to punish me for doing what I considered my duty, it is easily in your power; but could I fear punishment from a monarch of your soul? I wished, sire, to bring you peace, and content within yourself.”

"Who told you, that I was not content within myself?"

"No one, sire, but my own heart. Has your Majesty any further commands?"

"You may depart."

Louis had been now attacked in his most tender part, and that, in a two-fold manner. His pride, which was equally susceptible of a right as of a wrong direction, had been both mortified and flattered by the Duchess de Navailles. He was as yet undetermined whether vanity or duty should bear away the victory; the former had a powerful ally in love, but the queen-mother, at the instigation of the duchess, procured the triumph of the latter. She addressed her son, so susceptible of every tender impression, in such a friendly and maternal manner; painted to him the delights of connubial peace in such bright colours; and conversed with him so eloquently on the evils of bad example, that the monarch, who had in truth been forcibly deprived of what he held most dear, consented to go to confession.

Let us compassionate rather than ridicule the weakness of this well meaning prince. That very evening he met the Duchess de Navailles, and extending his hand, said, "My dear duchess, let us be friends!"

If the elderly ladies at court had reason to rejoice at this conversion of the king, the young ones had much greater reason. Louis's attachment to La Vallière had disturbed all their calculations; they could now each again enter the lists for victory. The king, however, remained insensible to their attacks; they had all the pleasure of hope, but nothing further. Only one, the Countess de Soissons, who since Louis's love to La Vallière, had

entirely lost her credit, and therefore hated the poor girl with no common hatred, was fortunate enough to find the means of revenge. Despairing of her own attractions, she determined to content herself with the pitiful pleasure of robbing La Vallière of that which she had no chance of obtaining. Perhaps her intrigues were laid with a deeper design. Perhaps the interest, with which she inspired the king for her young friend, was intended for the invisible cord that was again to draw Louis to herself. However that may be, it is sufficient that she contrived to inspire Louis with interest for a lady of the name of De la Mothe-Houdancourt. But how severe was the chastisement she received for her short-lived pleasure! The image of his La Vallière was engraven too deeply in the heart of the monarch to be effaced by a mere passing attachment. Louis, seeing the net that was spread for him, turned his back on De la MotheHoudancourt, and never spoke another word to the countess.

In the meantime, La Vallière was fast consuming herself with grief in her retirement. The envy of the court; the chilly tarrying of those who waited to see whether the love of the king would not yet return; and the contemptuous language of others, whom she had deemed altogether fallen, wounded her heart not so deep as the accounts she received of the levity of the man, on whom her whole being now depended. Had she been capable of revenge, many a favourable opportunity presented itself. But this was beneath her nature.

However little Louis was faithful to his wife, he nevertheless did every thing in his power to preserve her from mortification. During the time that his actions were the subject of general conversation at court, not one syllable reached the ears of the queen. La Vallière remained one of the ladies of the bed-chamber; and, as propriety would not admit of his entrance into their apartment, he saw himself subjected to this restraint. But when the object of our wishes is attainable, of what avail is all self-denial and restraint beyond a certain period?

The sacrifice, which duty wrung from love, Louis had made. His deluded conscience seemed now appeased, and love resumed all its former sway.

The king and his La Vallière were again together before people were aware of it. But how? He dared not enter her room through the door, and the former entrance through the window at the roof had been blocked up. Here

love had again recourse to one of its own romantic ways.

Like Pyramus and Thisbe of old, our happy pair rejoiced at the discovery of a chink in the wooden partition of one of the apartments of the château. Now, that to embrace and look at each other was denied them, whispering was the only consolation that remained. What it was that they whispered to each other, curiosity never learned; but again their unlucky star did not long suffer them to enjoy even this means of communication. The old disturber of their happiness, the Duchess de Navailles, doubly observant of every step of the king, since her former exploit had gained her such a name for virtue, discovered, God knows how, the secret communication. Without hinting a word, she ordered the carpenter to come; and when the lovers appeared as usual at the place of meeting, the chink was no longer there.

But this stroke, which was too much for the king, was also the last. Equally unprepared for, as mortified by the conduct of the duchess, he gave orders for it to be intimated to her and her husband, that they were forbidden the court; but the queen-mother hearing what had happened, and fearing what might happen, again interceded between them. Were, the exile of the Lady Maréchale, she represented to him, to come to the ears of the queen, the cause of it could not long remain secret; and in her present state, as she was pregnant, the discovery might be attended with serious consequences. This had the effect; and the king revoked the exile of the duchess and her husband, but enjoined them in the most positive manner, not again to intermeddle with his affairs.

The interviews with La Vallière, which Louis had hitherto taken such trouble to keep secret, he himself now publicly acknowledged. He gave himself up entirely to the impulses of his heart; and no longer fearing any witnesses, the only restraint he put upon himself was in the presence of his consort, who, whatever might be her suspicions, was as yet informed of nothing with certainty. Only on the queen's account was La Vallière obliged, at the fêtes which were given in her own honour, to lose herself now, as formerly, amongst the crowd of courtiers present.

Louis, who publicly visited his beloved, and was persuaded that her attachment to him was deeper than his to her, began to think that he might now increase his demands. But how was he

to interpret it, that she, incapable of coquetry, since the day that his love for her had been openly acknowledged, had become more reserved in their tête-a-tête than formerly; that she sought to evade his warmed embraces; and that when he entered to her in the triumphant feeling of happy love, she always seemed lost in sorrow. Questions were of no avail; protestations of his love, of equally as little. With the most ardent expressions of passion she avowed herself his, and tears answered for her vows. Louis was confounded.

At

Going one morning as usual to visit his mistress, he found the door of her room locked. "Where is she?" exclaimed the impetuous monarch. first the attendants hesitated to answer, but were at length compelled to confess, that she had that morning taken refuge in the convent of Chaillot.

Without regarding the Spanish ambassador, who had just announced himself for an audience, Louis hastened into the stables, and saddling a horse with his own hands, mounted, and fled to the convent of Chaillot.

The rules of the convent did not admit of his seeing his beloved. He insisted. They entreated him to yield to the regulations prescribed by the order; but to no purpose. Terrible were his threats; for the idea crossed his mind that La Vallière had been forcibly taken away. All were now compelled to bow down to the will of the monarch. He saw his love; fell at her feet, and before she could recover herself, led her in triumph away. My son!" said the queen-mother, "you are no longer master of yourself!" "Well then," replied the king, I will be of those who drive me to extremities!"

The queen mother again sought refuge in that, which, often before in critical cases, had been of happy effect; namely, in religion. Father Annat, the royal confessor, was called upon to represent to his mighty penitent, the sinfulness of his actions. After a long sermon respecting the duties of a prince, the father ended with these words: "And if you follow not my counsel, sire, I leave your court!"

The king turned round without deigning to answer, and within the next hour the father had his dismissal.

Proceedings like these, of course put an end to all further remonstrance. Louis saw his La Vallière undisturbed, and saw her often; the proofs of which soon became visible.

During the whole period of her pregnancy, the poor girl was obliged to inhabit a room, through which the queen passed daily to hear mass. On this account, whatever reports might have been spread, the queen always contradicted them.

La Vallière was delivered of a son. It was midnight. The king was present with the physicians in the adjoining room; and, taking the new-born child into his arms, gave himself up wholly to a father's joy; and when the queen passed through on the following day, La Vallière was indisposed, but nothing further. In order not to leave the slightest ground for suspicion, tuberoses, and various strongly fragrant flowers were placed in the room; and what no other woman in her situation could have borne, was borne by La Vallière.

Numberless intrigues, which were now entered into with the view of crushing the favourite, only ended in the ruin of their projectors. The king granted her a beautifully furnished house to reside in; but, although surrounded with every kind of splendour and amusement, she was indifferent to every thing that was not Louis. She never used her power to intermeddle in the affairs of the state, or to revenge herself on one of her numerous enemies. Only by the love, which she universally inspired, did she render others unhappy. A young lieutenant in the guards, who had sighed after her previously to her acquaintance with the king, and sent her a number of letters, without reeeiving any answer, happened at this time to return from the army, and hearing how matters were situated, put an end to his existence with his own sword.

Modest and retired, notwithstanding her good fortune; ever apprehensive of not being able sufficiently to reward the tenderness of her lover; ever delicate in the proofs of her love; La Vallière lived several years as the acknowledged favourite of the king, and wept over a title which envy unwillingly accorded her.

Oh, thou! who knowest the order of the world, and the ways of the human heart, why cannot love alone secure a return of love? Why does the tenderest heart in time oppress with its very tenderness? Why does the softness of feeling lose its charm?-La Vallière, faithful to her lover until death, after a few years became an object of comparative indifference to him. She, who never dreamt of hazarding her influence by a denial of her favours, by these very means lost his

heart to a rival of unbridled licentiousness, a witty but unfeeling_coquette. Athenais de Montemar, Marchioness de Montespan, was a beautiful figure, well formed, striking in her actions, and accomplished. Her abilities, both acquired, and those with which nature had so richly endowed her, she knew how to turn to advantage with wonderful facility. No sooner had she perceived the increasing coldness of the king towards La Vallière, than with a whole host of rivals, she entered boldly and artfully into the lists against her.

True, Louis' heart belonged no longer so utterly to his La Vallière as formerly, but still sufficiently to dispute the victory with any one, bearing any resemblance to her. But between La Vallière and Montespan there was not even the shadow of resemblance to be found. Hence alone is it conceivable how Louis, seduced by novelty, became entangled in the net which he saw openly spread out before him.

As yet, however, he had not found the courage to tear himself violently away from the heart which was so devotedly attached to him. Love asserts its rights a long time ere they become the prey of lust; but fetters which oppress are no longer the fetters of love. In remaining faithful to La Vallière, Louis did violence to his feelings, and thereby became daily the less faithful. He entertained her with the humours of Montespan, and to which she, poor girl, was patient and gentle enough to listen. She even permitted her witty rival the entrance into her own circle; but from that hour she was lost. The result of the comparison which the king daily instituted between a silent enthusiast, whose feelings of morality were so great; and a Phoyne at court, who appeared both able and willing to grant the man to whom she attached herself, all that he could desire, was that he soon wished to be relieved of the comparison. In La Vallière, Louis saw now only the troublesome spy. He visited Montespan alone.

As soon as La Vallière heard of the open faithlessness of her lover, she was bathed in tears. Montespan, not content with having driven her rival from the field, wished to annihilate her; and denied herself the enjoyment of that, which she thought she could not as yet maintain in security.

Her caution was but well-founded. More than once Louis wavered back to La Vallière; and she, the ever gentle,