Old Court Life in France, Volume II (of 2). Elliot Frances Minto Dickinson

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      "True, my father, but that is a matter of opinion. I think differently. Absolution, after repentance," continued the Cardinal pompously, "may wash out even crime, but it is for us, – you, his Majesty's confessor, and I, his minister, both faithful servants of the Holy Father," – Caussin looked hard at the Cardinal, who was by no means considered orthodox at Rome, – "it is for us to guard him from even the semblance of evil. I have sent for you, my father, to assist me in placing Louise de Lafayette in a convent. It will be at least a measure of precaution. I shall require all your help, my father; will you give it me?" Richelieu, as he asked this important question, narrowly observed Caussin from under his drooping eyelids. The confessor was evidently embarrassed. His kindly countenance was troubled; and he was some time in answering.

      "To dedicate a young and pure soul to God," he replied, at length, with evident hesitation, "is truly an acceptable work; but has your Eminence considered that the lady in question is of the most blameless life, and that by her example and influence his Majesty may be kept in that path of obedience and faith which some other attachment might not insure?" As he asked this question Caussin leaned forwards towards Richelieu, speaking earnestly.

      "Father Caussin," said the Cardinal, in his hardest manner, and motioning with his hand as though commanding special attention, "we must look in this matter beyond his Majesty's feelings. I have good reason for alarm. A crisis is impending," and he turned again to the papers lying on the table with a significant air. "If Louise de Lafayette has any vocation, let her be advised to encourage it. Consider in what manner you can best bend the King's will to comply. You tell me the lady is a good Catholic; I rejoice to hear it. She comes of a family of heretics. She may be sincere, though I much doubt it. At all events, she must be removed; simply as a matter of precaution, my father, I repeat, she must be removed. Let me beg you to consult the General of your order upon this matter immediately. Understand me, I am advising this simply as a matter of precaution, nothing more." All this time Caussin had listened intently to the Cardinal. The troubled look on his face had deepened into one of infinite sadness. His brow was knit, but there were doubt and hesitation in his manner.

      "I can only consent to assist your Eminence," he replied, in a low voice, after some moments of deep thought, "on the condition that the lady herself freely consents. I can permit no violence to be done to her inclinations, nor to the will of his Majesty. If the lady is ready to offer up herself to the Church through my means, it will doubtless redound to the credit of our order; but she shall not be forced."

      "Certainly not, certainly not," interposed Richelieu, in a much more affable tone. "I do not know why your reverence should start such a supposition."

      "I will consult our General, Cardinal," continued Caussin; "but I am bound to say that the influence the lady has hitherto exercised has been most legitimate, most orthodox, altogether in favour of our order, to which she is devoted, and of the Church. She is a most pious lady."

      "All the more fit for the privilege I propose to bestow upon her," answered Richelieu, with unction; "she will be safe from temptation within the bosom of the Church, a blessing we, my father," and Richelieu affected to heave a deep sigh, and cast up his eyes to heaven, "we, who live in the world, cannot attain. We act then in concert, my father," he added quickly, in his usual manner, "we act for the good of his Majesty's soul?"

      Caussin bowed acquiescence, but mistrust and perplexity were written upon every line of his honest face, as he observed the evident satisfaction evinced by the Cardinal at his compliance.

      Richelieu rose: "We will force no one's inclination, my father," he said blandly, "but all possibility of scandal must be removed. You must at once prepare his Majesty. It will be a good work, and will greatly recommend you to your order." Caussin, with a look of the deepest concern, bowed profoundly and withdrew. When he was alone, the Cardinal re-seated himself and fell into a deep muse. "Now," said he, at length, speaking to himself, "her fate is sealed. I will take care that her vocation shall be perfect. This presumptuous girl shall soon come to rejoice, ay, rejoice, that she is permitted to take refuge in a convent. As for Caussin, he is a fool. I must remove him immediately."

      Richelieu, as he said of himself, never halted in his resolves. Caussin was shortly sent off by a lettre de cachet to Rennes, narrowly escaping an intimation from the Cardinal to his Superior that it would be well to exercise his devotion to the order as a missionary in Canada.

       CHAPTER III.

      A NOBLE RESOLVE

      THE Court had removed from the Louvre to Saint-Germain, always the favourite abode of the melancholy monarch.

      Louis suffered tortures from the galling restraints his position entailed upon him in his intercourse with Mademoiselle de Lafayette. He rarely saw her alone. When he addressed her, he was conscious that every eye was fixed upon them. Their correspondence, carried on by means of Chavigny, was, he felt, full of danger. His only comforter in his manifold troubles was this same treacherous Chavigny. Prompted by the Cardinal, Chavigny urged the King, on every possible occasion, to make some arrangement with Mademoiselle de Lafayette to meet in private. "If she loves you," said this unworthy tool, "if you really possess her heart, she will long to meet your Majesty with greater freedom as much as you can do. It is for you to make some such proposal to her. Do it, Sire; do it without delay, or I assure you the lady will think you careless and indifferent." Thus spoke Chavigny. Louis listened, meditated on what he said, and was convinced. He gave himself up to the most entrancing day-dreams.

      The season was summer. The weather was hot, and the tall windows of the great saloon were thrown open. The Court had gathered round the Queen, who was engaged in a lively conversation with Mademoiselle de Montpensier, the young daughter of the Duc d'Orléans. Seeing that her services were not required, Louise de Lafayette, pensive and silent, stole away to the balcony outside the windows. She stood alone, lost in her own thoughts. With noiseless steps Louis approached her. He lent by her side over the balustrade, bending his eyes on the broad plains towards Paris.

      "You are thoughtful, Sire," said Louise timidly. "Will you tell me your thoughts?"

      "If I do," replied Louis, casting a fond glance upon her, "will you trust me with yours?"

      A delicious tremor passed through her whole frame. She cast down her large grey eyes, and smiled. "Indeed I trust you, Sire," she murmured softly; "you know I do."

      "But trust me more, – let our communion be more intimate. A brother's love is not more pure than mine," whispered the King; "but," and he hesitated and blushed, "I have never enjoyed the privilege of a brother." Louise raised her eyes inquiringly.

      The King was greatly confused. "A brother – " and he stopped. Then, seeing her earnest look of curiosity – "A brother," he repeated, "salutes his sister: I have never enjoyed that privilege, Louise." He was scarcely audible. "Let my self-denial, at least, secure me all your confidence."

      "Oh, Sire, you have it, entire and unreserved; you know it. I might distrust myself, but you, Sire, never, never!"

      "How happy you make me!" returned the King, and a sickly smile overspread his haggard face. "I understand – I appreciate your attachment to me; but oh, mademoiselle, how can my feeble words express mine to you? – how can I describe that which is without bounds – without limit? You can live without me. You can find solace in your own perfection, in the admiration of those around you – but I, I am nothing without you. I am a mere blank – a blot upon a luxurious Court – an offence to my superb wife. No one cares for my happiness – not even for my existence, but you. When I cannot approach you, I am overcome by despair. Oh, Louise, give yourself up to me, in pity – without fear, without restraint. Let me see you every day, – let me be encouraged by your words, led by your counsels, soothed by your pity, blessed by your sight. You say you do not doubt me. What then do you fear?"

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