The Princess of Cleves/Part 2
PART II.
You know the friendship, there is betwixt Sancerre and me. Nevertheless about two years ago he fell in love with madam de Tournon, and concealed it from me with as much care as from the rest of the world; I had not the least suspicion of it. Madam de Tournon as yet appeared inconsolable for the death of her husband, and lived in retirement with great austerity. Sancerre's sister was in a manner the only person she saw, and it was at her lodgings he became in love with her.
One evening there was to be play at the Louvre, and the actors only waited for the coming of the king and madam de Valentinois; when word was brought that she was indisposed, and that the king would not come. It was easy to see that the duchess's indisposition was nothing but some quarrel with the king; everyone knew the jealousy he had had of the mareschal de Brisac during his continuance at court; but he had been set out some days on his return to Piemont, and one could not imagine what was the occasion of this falling out.
While I was speaking of this to Sancerre, monsieur d'Anville came into the room, and told me in a whisper, that the king was so exasperated and so afflicted at the same time, that one would pity him; that upon a late reconciliation between him and the duchess, after the quarrel they had had about the mareschal de Brisac, he had given her a ring, and desired her to wear it; and that as she was dressing herself to come to the play, he had missed it on her finger, and asked what was become of it; upon which she seemed in surprise that she had it not, and called to her women for it, who unfortunately, or for want of being better instructed, made answer they had not seen it four or five days.
It was, continued monsieur d'Anville, precisely so long, since the Mareschal de Brisac left the Court, and the king made no doubt but she gave him the ring when she took her leave of him. The thought of this awaked in so lively a manner that jealousy which was not yet extinguished, that he fell into uncommon transports, and loaded her with a thousand reproaches; he is just gone into her apartment again in great concern, but whether the reason is a more confirmed opinion that the duchess had made a sacrifice of the ring, or for fear of having disobliged her by his anger, I can't tell.
As soon as monsieur d'Anville had told me this news, I acquainted Sancerre with it; I told it him as a secret newly entrusted with me, and charged him to say nothing of it.
The next day I went early in the morning to my sister-in-law's, and found madam de Tournon at her bedside, who had no great kindness for the duchess of Valentinois, and knew very well that my sister-in-law had no reason to be satisfied with her. Sancerre had been with her, after he went from the play, and had acquainted her with the quarrel between the king and the duchess; and madam de Tournon was come to tell it to my sister-in-law, without knowing or suspecting that it was I from whom her lover had it.
As soon as I advanced toward my sister-in-law, she told madam de Tournon, that they might trust me with what she had been telling her; and without waiting madam de Tournon's leave, she related to me word by word all I had told Sancerre the night before. You may judge what surprise I was in; I looked hard at madam de Tournon, and she seemed disordered; her disorder gave me a suspicion. I had told the thing to nobody but Sancerre; he left me when the comedy was done, without giving any reason for it; I remembered to have heard him speak much in praise of madam de Tournon; all these things opened my eyes, and I easily discerned there was an intrigue between them, and that he had seen her since he left me.
I was so stung to find he had concealed this adventure from me, that I said several things which made madam de Tournon sensible of the imprudence she had been guilty of; I led her back to her coach, and assured her, I envied the happiness of him who informed her of the king's quarrel with the duchess of Valentinois.
I went immediately in search of Sancerre, and severely reproached him; I told him I knew of his passion for madam de Tournon, without saying how I came by the discovery; he was forced to acknowledge it; I afterwards informed him what led me into the knowledge of it, and he acquainted me with the detail of the whole affair; he told me, that though he was a younger brother, and far from being able to pretend to so good a match, nevertheless she was determined to marry him. I can't express the surprise I was in; I told Sancerre he would do well to hasten the conclusion of the marriage, and that there was nothing he had not to fear from a woman who had the artifice to support, in the eye of the public, appearances so distant from truth; he gave me in answer that she was really concerned for the loss of her husband, but that the inclination she had for him had surmounted that affliction, and that she could not help discovering all on a sudden so great a change; he mentioned besides several other reasons in her excuse, which convinced me how desperately he was in love; he assured me he would bring her to consent that I should know his passion for her, especially since it was she herself who had made me suspect it; in a word, he did oblige her to it, though with a great deal of difficulty, and I grew afterwards very deep in their confidence.
I never knew a lady behave herself in so genteel and agreeable a manner to her lover, but yet I was always shocked at the affectation she shewed in appearing so concerned for the loss of her husband. Sancerre was so much in love, and so well pleased with the treatment he received from her, that he scarce durst press her to conclude the marriage, for fear she should think he desired it rather out of interest than love; however he spoke to her of it, and she seemed fully bent on marrying him; she began also to abandon her reserved manner of life, and to appear again in public; she visited my sister-in-law at hours when some of the court were usually there; Sancerre came there but seldom, but those who came every night, and frequently saw her there, thought her extremely beautiful.
She had not long quitted her solitude, when Sancerre imagined that her passion for him was cooled; he spoke of it several times to me: but I laid no great stress on the matter; but at last, when he told me, that instead of forwarding the marriage, she seemed to put it off, I began to think he was not to blame for being uneasy: I remonstrated to him, that if madam de Tournon's passion was abated after having continued two years, he ought not to be surprised at it, and that even supposing it was not abated, possibly it might not be strong enough to induce her to marry him; that he ought not to complain of it; that such a marriage in the judgment of the public would draw censures upon her, not only because he was not a suitable match for her, but also on account of the prejudice it would do her reputation; that therefore all he could desire was, that she might not deceive him, nor lead him into false expectations; I told him further, that if she had not resolution enough to marry him, or if she confessed she liked some other person better, he ought not to resent or be angry at it, but still continue his esteem and regard for her.
I give you, said I, the advice which I would take myself; for sincerity has such charms to me, that I believe if my mistress, or even my wife ingenuously confessed, she had a greater affection for another than for me, I might be troubled, but not exasperated; I would lay aside the character of a lover or a husband, to bestow my advice and my pity.
This discourse made madam de Cleves blush, and she found in it a certain similitude of her own condition, which very much surprised her, and gave her a concern, from which she could not recover in a great while.
Sancerre spoke to madam de Tournon, continued monsieur de Cleves, and told her all I had advised him; but she encouraged him with so many fresh assurances, and seemed so displeased at his suspicions, that she entirely removed them; nevertheless she deferred the marriage until after a pretty long journey he was to make; but she behaved herself so well until his departure, and appeared so concerned at it, that I believed as well as he, that she sincerely loved him. He set out about three months ago; during his absence I have seldom seen madam de Tournon; you have entirely taken me up, and I only knew that he was speedily expected.
The day before yesterday, on my arrival at Paris, I heard she was dead; I sent to his lodgings to enquire if they had any news of him, and word was brought me he came to town the night before, which was precisely the day that madam de Tournon died; I immediately went to see him, concluding in what condition I should find him, but his affliction far surpassed what I had imagined.
Never did I see a sorrow so deep and so tender; the moment he saw me he embraced me with tears; I shall never see her more, said he, I shall never see her more, she is dead, I was not worthy of her, but I shall soon follow her.
After this he was silent; and then, from time to time,continually repeating She is dead, I shall never see her more, he returned to lamentations and tears, and continued as a man bereft of reason. He told me, he had not often received letters from her during his absence, but that he knew her too well to be surprised at it, and was sensible how shy and timorous she was of writing; he made no doubt but she would have married him upon his return; he considered her as the most amiable and constant of her sex; he thought himself tenderly beloved by her; he lost her the moment he expected to be united to her for ever; all these thoughts threw him into so violent an affliction, that I own I was deeply touched with it.
Nevertheless I was obliged to leave him to go to the King, but promised to return immediately; accordingly I did, and I was never so surprised as I was to find him entirely changed from what I had left him; he was standing in his chamber, his face full of fury, sometimes walking, sometimes stopping short, as if he had been distracted. Come, says he, and see the most forlorn wretch in the world; I am a thousand times more unhappy than I was a while ago, and what I have just heard of madam de Tournon is worse than her death.
I took what he said to be wholly the effect of grief, and could not imagine that there could be anything worse than the death of a mistress one loves and is beloved by; I told him, that so far as he kept his grief within bounds, I approved of it, and bore a part in it; but that I should no longer pity him, if he abandoned himself to despair and flew from reason. I should be too happy if I had lost both my reason and my life, cried he; madam de Tournon was false to me, and I am informed of her unfaithfulness and treachery the very day after I was informed of her death; I am informed of it at a time when my soul is filled with the most tender love, and pierced with the sharpest grief that ever was; at a time when the idea of her in my heart is that of the most perfect woman who ever lived, and the most perfect with respect to me; I find I am mistaken, and that she does not deserve to be lamented by me; nevertheless I have the same concern for her death, as if she had been true to me, and I have the same sensibility of her falsehood, as if she were yet living; had I heard of her falsehood before her death, jealousy, anger, and rage would have possessed me, and in some measure hardened me against the grief for her loss; but now my condition is such, that I am incapable of receiving comfort, and yet know not how to hate her.
You may judge of the surprise I was in at what Sancerre told me; I asked him how he came by the knowledge of it; and he told me that the minute I went away from him, Etouteville, who is his intimate friend, but who nevertheless knew nothing of his love for madam de Tournon, came to see him; that as soon as he was sat down, he fell a-weeping, and asked his pardon for having concealed from him what he was going to tell him, that he begged him to have compassion of him, that he was come to open his heart to him, and that he was the person in the world the most afflicted for the death of madam de Tournon.
That name, said Sancerre, so astonished me, that though my first intention was to tell him I was more afflicted than he, I had not the power to speak: he continued to inform me, that he had been in love with her six months, that he was always desirous to let me know it, but she had expressly forbid him; and in so authoritative a manner, that he durst not disobey her; that he gained her in a manner as soon as he courted her, that they concealed their mutual passion for each other from the whole world, that he never visited her publicly, that he had the pleasure to remove her sorrow for her husband's death; and that lastly he was to have married her at the very juncture in which she died; but that this marriage, which was an effect of love, would have appeared in her an effect of duty and obedience, she having prevailed upon her father to lay his commands on her to marry him, in order to avoid the appearance of too great an alteration in her conduct, which had seemed so averse to a second marriage.
While Etouteville was speaking to me, said Sancerre, I believed all he said, because I found so much probability in it, and because the time when he told me his passion for madam de Tournon commenced, is precisely the same with that when she appeared changed towards me; but the next morning I thought him a liar, or at least an enthusiast, and was upon the point of telling him so. Afterwards I came into an inclination of clearing up the matter, and proposed several questions, and laid my doubts before him; in a word, I proceeded so far to convince myself of my misfortune, that he asked me if I knew madam de Tournon's handwriting, and with that threw upon my bed four letters of hers and her picture; my brother came in that minute; Etouteville's face was so full of tears, that he was forced to withdraw to avoid being observed, and said he would come again in the evening to fetch what he left with me; and as for me, I sent my brother away under pretence of being indisposed, so impatient was I to see the letters he had left, and so full of hopes to find something there that might make me disbelieve what Etouteville had been telling me; but alas! What did I not find there? What tenderness! what assurances of marriage! what letters! She never wrote the like to me. Thus, continued he, am I at once pierced with anguish for her death and for her falsehood, two evils which have been often compared, but never felt before by the same person at the same time; I confess, to my shame, that still I am more grieved for her loss than for her change; I cannot think her guilty enough, to consent to her death: were she living, I should have the satisfaction to reproach her, and to revenge myself on her by making her sensible of her injustice; but I shall see her no more; I shall see her no more! this is the greatest misfortune of all others; would I could restore her to life, though with the loss of my own! Yet what do I wish? If she were restored to life, she would live for Etouteville: how happy was I yesterday, cried he, how happy! I was the most afflicted man in the world; but my affliction was reasonable, and there was something pleasing in the very thought that I was inconsolable. To-day all my sentiments are unjust; I pay to a feigned passion the tribute of my grief, which I thought I owed to a real one; I can neither hate nor love her memory; I am incapable of consolation, and yet don't know how to grieve for her; take care, I conjure you, that I never see Etouteville; his very name raises horror in me; I know very well I have no reason of complaint against him; I was to blame in concealing from him my love for Madam de Tournon; if he had known it, perhaps he would not have pursued her, perhaps she would not have been false to me; he came to me to impart his sorrows, and I cannot but pity him; alas! he had reason to love madam de Tournon, he was beloved by her, and will never see her more: notwithstanding I perceive I can't help hating him; once more I conjure you take care I may not see him.
Sancerre burst afterwards into tears, began again to regret madam de Tournon, and to speak to her, as if she were present, and say the softest things in the world; from these transports he passed to hatred, to complaints, to reproaches and imprecations against her. When I saw him in so desperate a condition, I found I should want somebody to assist me in appeasing his mind; accordingly I sent for his brother, whom I had left with the king; I met him in the anti-chamber, and acquainted him with Sancerre's condition: we gave the necessary orders to prevent his seeing Etouteville, and employed part of the night in endeavouring to make him capable of reason; this morning I found him yet more afflicted; his brother continued with him, and I returned to you.It is impossible to be more surprised than I am, said madam de Cleves; I thought madam de Tournon equally incapable of loveand falsehood. Address and dissimulation, replied monsieur de Cleves, cannot go further than she carried them; observe, that when Sancerre thought her love to him was abated, it really was, and she began to love Etouteville; she told the last that he removed her sorrow for her husband's death, and that he was the cause of her quitting her retirement. Sancerre believed the cause was nothing but a resolution she had taken not to seem any longer to be in such deep affliction; she made a merit to Etouteville of concealing her correspondence with him, and of seeming forced to marry him by her father's command, as if it was an effect of the care she had of her reputation; whereas it was only an artifice to forsake Sancerre, without his having reason to resent it. I must return, continued Mr. de Cleves, to see this unhappy man, and I believe you would do well to go to Paris too; it is time for you to appear in the world again, and receive the numerous visits which you can't well dispense with.
Madam de Cleves agreed to the proposal, and returned to Paris the next day; she found herself much more easy with respect to the duke de Nemours than she had been; what her mother had told her on her death-bed, and her grief for her death, created a sort of suspension in her mind as to her passion for the duke, which made her believe it was quite effaced.
The evening of her arrival the queen-dauphin made her a visit, and after having condoled with her, told her that in order to divert her from melancholy thoughts, she would let her know all that had passed at court in her absence; upon which she related to her a great many extraordinary things; but what I have the greatest desire to inform you of, added she, is that it is certain the duke de Nemours is passionately in love; and that his most intimate friends are not only not entrusted in it, but can't so much as guess who the person is he is in love with; nevertheless this passion of his is so strong as to make him neglect, or to speak more properly, abandon the hopes of a crown.
What poison did this discourse of the Queen-Dauphin carry in it for madam de Cleves! How could she but know herself to be the person whose name was not known, and how could she help being filled with tenderness and gratitude, when she learned, by a way not in the least liable to suspicion, that the duke, who had already touched her heart, concealed his passion from the whole world, and neglected for her sake the hopes of a crown? It is impossible to express what she felt, or to describe the tumult that was raised in her soul. Had the queen-dauphin observed her closely, she might easily have discerned, that what she had been
saying was not indifferent to her; but as she had not the least suspicion of the truth, she continued her discourse without minding her: Monsieur d'Anville, added she, from whom, as I just told you, I had all this, believes I know more of it than himself, and he has so great an opinion of my beauty, that he is
satisfied I am the only person capable of creating so great a change in the Duke of Nemours.
But I forget myself in your company, added the queen-dauphin, and don't remember that I am to wait upon Madame. Having said this, she took her leave of madam de Cleves, and the next day the king and the queens went to visit her. The duke de Nemours, who had expected her return with the utmost impatience, and languished for an opportunity of speaking to her in private, contrived to wait upon her at an hour, when the company would probably be withdrawing, and nobody else come in; he succeeded in his design, and came in when the last visitors were going away.
The Princess was sitting on her bed, and the hot weather, together with the sight of the duke de Nemours, gave her a blush that added to her beauty; he sat over against her with a certain timorous respect, that flows from a real love; he continued some minutes without speaking; nor was she the less at a loss, so that they were both silent a good while: at last the Duke condoled with her for her mother's deathMadam de Cleves was glad to give the conversation that turn, spoke a considerable time of the great loss she had had, and at last said, that though time had taken off from the violence of her grief, yet the impression would always remain so strong, that it would entirely change her humour.Great troubles and excessive passions, replied the duke, make great alterations in the mind; as for me, I am quite another man since my return from Flanders; abundance of people have taken notice of this change, and the queen-dauphin herself spoke to me of it yesterday. It is true, replied the princess, she has observed it, and I think I remember to have heard her say something about it.I'm not sorry, madam, replied the duke, that she has discerned it, but I could wish some others in particular had discerned it too; there are persons to whom we dare give no other evidences of the passion we have for them, but by things which do not concern them; and when we dare not let them know we love them, we should be glad at least to have them see we are not desirous of being loved by any other; we should be glad to convince them, that no other beauty, though of the highest rank, has any charms for us, and that a crown would be too dear, if purchased with no less a price than absence from her we adore. Women ordinarily, continued he, judge of the passion one has for them, by the care one takes to oblige, and to be assiduous about them; but it's no hard matter to do this, though they be ever so little amiable; not to give oneself up to the pleasure of pursuing them, to shun them through fear of discovering to the public, and in a manner to themselves, the sentiments one has for them, here lies the difficulty; and what still more demonstrates the truth of one's passion is, the becoming entirely changed from what one was, and the having no longer a gust either for ambition or pleasure, after one has employed one's whole life in pursuit of both.
The princess of Cleves readily apprehended how far she was concerned in this discourse; one while she seemed of opinion that she ought not to suffer such an address; another, she thought she ought not to seem to understand it, or show she supposed herself meant by it; she thought she ought to speak, and she thought she ought to be silent; the duke of Nemours's discourse equally pleased and offended her; she was convinced by it of the truth of all the queen-dauphin had led her to think; she found in it somewhat gallant and respectful, but also somewhat bold and too intelligible; the inclination she had for the duke gave her an anxiety which it was not in her power to controul; the most obscure expressions of a man that pleases, move more than the most open declaration of one we have no liking for; she made no answer: the duke de Nemours took notice of her silence, which perhaps would have proved no ill presage, if the coming in of the prince of Cleves had not ended at once the conversation and the visit.
The prince was coming to give his wife a further account of Sancerre, but she was not over curious to learn that adventure; she was so much taken up with what had just passed, that she could hardly conceal the embarrassment she was in. When she was at liberty to muse upon it, she plainly saw she was mistaken, when she thought she was indifferent as to the duke de Nemours; what he had said to her had made all the impression he could desire, and had entirely convinced her of his passion; besides the duke's actions agreed too well with his words to leave her the least doubt about it; she no longer flattered herself that she did not love him; all her care was not to let him discover it, a task of which she had already experienced the difficulty; she knew the only way to succeed in it was to avoid seeing him; and as her mourning gave her an excuse for being more retired than usual, she made use of that pretence not to go to places where he might see her; she was full of melancholy; her mother's death was the seeming cause of it, and no suspicion was had of any other.
The duke de Nemours, not seeing her any more, fell into desperation and knowing he should not meet with her in any public assembly, or at any diversions the court joined in, he could not prevail upon himself to appear there, and therefore he pretended a great love for hunting, and made matches for that sport on the days when the queens kept their assemblies; a slight indisposition had served him a good while as an excuse for staying at home, and declining to go to places where he knew very well that madam de Cleves would not be.
The prince of Cleves was ill almost at the same time, and the princess never stirred out of his room during his illness; but when he grew better, and received company, and among others the duke de Nemours, who under pretence of being yet weak, staied with him the greatest part of the day, she found she could not continue any longer there; and yet in the first visits he made she had not the resolution to go out; she had been too long without seeing him, to be able to resolve to see him no more; the duke had the address, by discourses that appeared altogether general, but which she understood very well by the relation they had to what he had said privately to her, to let her know that he went a-hunting only to be more at liberty to think of her, and that the reason of his not going to the assemblies was her not being there.
At last she executed the resolution she had taken to go out of her husband's room, whenever he was there, though this was doing the utmost violence to herself: the duke perceived she avoided him, and the thought of it touched him to the heart.
The prince of Cleves did not immediately take notice of his wife's conduct in this particular, but at last he perceived she went out of the room when there was company there; he spoke to her of it, and she told him that she did not think it consistent with decency to be every evening among the gay young courtiers; that she hoped he would allow her to live in a more reserved manner than she had done hitherto, that the virtue and presence of her mother authorised her in many liberties which could not otherwise be justified in a woman of her age.
Monsieur de Cleves, who had a great deal of facility and complaisance for his wife, did not show it on this occasion, but told her he would by no means consent to her altering her conduct; she was upon the point of telling him, it was reported that the duke de Nemours was in love with her, but she had not the power to name him; besides she thought it disingenuous to disguise the truth, and make use of pretences to a man who had so good an opinion of her.
Some days after the king was with the queen at the assembly-hour, and the discourse turned upon nativities and predictions; the company were divided in their opinion as to what credit ought to be given to them; the Queen professed to have great faith in them, and maintained that after so many things had come to pass as they had been foretold, one could not doubt but there was something of certainty in that science; others affirmed, that of an infinite number of predictions so very few proved true, that the truth of those few ought to be looked upon as an effect of chance.
I have formerly been very curious and inquisitive as to futurity, said the King, but I have seen so many false and improbable things, that I am satisfied there is no truth in that pretended art. Not many years since there came hither a man of great reputation in astrology; everybody went to see him; I went among others, but without saying who I was, and I carried with me the duke of Guise and Descars, and made them go in first; nevertheless the astrologer addressed himself first to me, as if he had concluded me to be their master; perhaps he knew me, and yet he told me one thing that was very unsuitable to my character, if he had known me; his prediction was that I should be killed in a duel; he told the duke of Guise, that he should die of a wound received behind; and he told Descars he should be knocked of the head by the kick of a horse; the duke of Guise was a little angry at the prediction, as if it imported he should run away; nor was Descars better pleased to find he was to make his exit by so unfortunate an accident; in a word, we went away all three of us very much out of humour with the astrologer; I don't know what will happen to the duke of Guise and Descars, but there is not much probability of my being killed in a duel; the king of Spain and I have just made peace, and if we had not, I question whether we should have fought, or if I should have challenged him, as the king my father did Charles V.
After the King had related the misfortune that was foretold him, those who had defended astrology abandoned the argument, and agreed there was no credit to be given to it. For my part, said the duke de Nemours aloud, I have the least reason of any man in the world to credit it; and then turning himself to madam de Cleves, near whom he stood, It has been foretold me, says he very softly, that I should be happy in a person for whom I should have the most violent and respectful passion; you may judge, madam, if I ought to believe in predictions.
The queen-dauphin, who believed, from what the duke had spoke aloud, that what he whispered was some false prediction that had been told him, asked him what it was he said to madam de Cleves; had he had a less ready wit, he would have been surprised at this question; but without any hesitation, What I said to her, madam, answered he, was, that it had been predicted to me, that I should be raised to a higher fortune than my most sanguine hopes could lead me to expect.If nothing have been foretold you but this, replied the Queen-Dauphin, smiling, and thinking of the affair of England, I would not advise you to decry astrology; you may have reasons hereafter to offer in defence of it. Madam de Cleves apprehended the queen-dauphin's meaning, but knew withal, that the fortune the duke of Nemours spoke of was not that of being king of England.
The time of her mourning being expired, the princess of Cleves was obliged to make her appearance again, and go to court as usual; she saw the duke de Nemours at the queen-dauphin's apartment; she saw him at the prince of Cleves's, where he often came in company of other young noblemen, to avoid being remarked; yet she never once saw him, but it gave her a pain that could not escape his observation.
However industrious she was to avoid being looked at by him, and to speak less to him than to any other, some things escaped her in an unguarded moment, which convinced him he was not indifferent to her; a man of less discernment than he would not have perceived it, but he had already so often been the object of love, that it was easy for him to know when he was loved; he found the chevalier de Guise was his rival, and the chevalier knew that the duke de Nemours was his; monsieur de Guise was theonly man in the court that had unravelled this affair, his interest having made him more clear-sighted than others; the knowledge they had of each other's sentiments created an opposition between them in everything, which, however, did not break out into an open quarrel; they were always of different parties at the running, at the ring, at tournaments, and all diversions the king delighted in, and their emulation was so great it could not be concealed.
Madam de Cleves frequently revolved in her mind the affair of England; she believed the duke de Nemours could not resist the advice of the King, and the instances of Lignerolles; she was very much concerned to find that Lignerolles was not yet returned, and she impatiently expected him; her inclinations strongly swayed her to inform herself exactly of the state of this affair; but the same reasons, which raised in her that curiosity, obliged her to conceal it, and she only enquired of the beauty, the wit, and the temper of queen Elizabeth. A picture of that princess had been brought the king, which madam de Cleves found much handsomer than she could have wished for, and she could not forbear saying, the picture flattered. I do not think so, replied the queen-dauphin; that Princess has the reputation of being very handsome, and of having a very exalted genius, and I know she has always been proposed to me as a model worthy my imitation; she can't but be very handsome, if she resembles her mother, Anne Bullen; never had woman so many charms and allurements both in her person and her humour; I have heard say she had something remarkably lively in her countenance, very different from what is usually found in other English beauties.I think, replied madam de Cleves, 'tis said she was born in France.Those who imagine so are mistaken, replied the queen-dauphin; I'll give you her history in a few words.
She was of a good family in England; Henry VIIIth was in love with her sister and her mother, and it has been even suspected by some, that she was his daughter; she came to France with Henry VII's sister, who married Louis XIIth; that princess, who was full of youth and gallantry, left the court of France with great reluctance after her husband's death; but Anne Bullen, who had the same inclinations as her mistress, could not prevail with herself to go away; the late king was in love with her, and she continued maid of honour to queen Claude; that queen died, and Margaretta, the king's sister, duchess of Alenson, and since queen of Navarre, whose story you know, took her into her service, where she imbibed the principles of the new religion; she returned afterwards to England, and there charmed all the world. She had the manners of France, which please in all countries; she sung well, she danced finely; she was a maid of honour to queen Catherine, and Henry VIIIth fell desperately in love with her.
Cardinal Wolsey, his favourite and first minister, being dissatisfied with the emperor for not having favoured his pretensions to the Papacy, in order to revenge himself of him, contrived an alliance between France and the king his master; he put it into the head of Henry VIIIth, that his marriage with the emperor's aunt was null, and advised him to marry the duchess of Alenson, whose husband was just dead; Anne Bullen, who was not without ambition, considered queen Catherine's divorce as a means that would bring her to the crown; she began to give the king of England impressions of the Lutheran religion, and engaged the late king to favour at Rome Henry VIIIth's divorce, in hopes of his marrying the duchess of Alenson; cardinal Wolsey, that he might have an opportunity of treating this affair, procured himself to be sent to France upon other pretences; but his master was so far from permitting him to propose this marriage, that he sent him express orders to Calais not to speak of it.
Cardinal Wolsey, at his return from France, was received with as great honours as could have been paid to the king himself; never did any favourite carry his pride and vanity to so great a height; he managed an interview between the two kings at Bologne, when Francis I. would have given the upper-hand to Henry VIII; but he refused to accept it. They treated one another by turns with the utmost magnificence, and presented to each habits of the same sort with those they wore themselves. I remember to have heard say, that those the late king sent to the king of England, were of crimson sattin beset all over with pearls and diamonds, and a robe of white velvet embroidered with gold. After having stayed some time at Bologne, they went to Calais. Anne Bullen was lodged in Henry VIIIth's court with the train of a queen; and Francis I. made her the same presents, and paid her the same honours as if she had been really so. In a word, after a passion of nine year's continuance king Henry married her, without waiting for the dissolving of his first marriage. The Pope precipitately thundered out excommunications against him, which so provoked king Henry, that he declared himself head of the church, and drew after him all England into the unhappy change in which you see it.
Anne Bullen did not long enjoy her greatness; for when she thought herself most secure of it by the death of queen Catherine, one day as she was seeing a match of running at the ring made by the viscount Rochefort her brother, the king was struck with such a jealousy, that he abruptly left the show, went away to London, and gave orders for arresting the queen, the viscount Rochefort, and several others whom he believed to be the lovers or confidants of that princess. Though this jealousy in appearance had its birth that moment, the king had been long possessed with it by the viscountess Rochefort, who not being able to bear the strict intimacy between her husband and the queen, represented it to the king as a criminal commerce; so that that prince, who was besides in love with Jane Seymour, thought of nothing but ridding himself of Anne Bullen; and in less than three weeks he caused the queen and her brother to be tried, had them both beheaded, and married Jane Seymour. He had afterwards several wives, whom he divorced or put to death; and among others Catherine Howard, whose confidant the viscount Rochefort was, and who was beheaded with her. Thus was she punished for having falsely accused Anne Bullen. And Henry VIIIth died, being become excessive fat.
All the ladies that were present when the queen-dauphin made this relation, thanked her for having given them so good an account of the court of England; and among the rest madam de Cleves, who could not forbear asking several questions concerning queen Elizabeth.
The queen-dauphin caused pictures in miniature to be drawn of all the beauties of the court, in order to send them to the queen her mother. One day, when that of madam de Cleves was finished, the queen-dauphin came to spend the afternoon with her; the duke de Nemours did not fail to be there; he let slip no opportunities of seeing madam de Cleves, yet without appearing to contrive them. She looked so pretty that day, that he would have fell in love with her, though he had not been so before: however he durst not keep his eyes fixed upon her, while she was sitting for her picture, for fear of showing too much the pleasure he took in looking at her.
The queen-dauphin asked monsieur de Cleves for a little picture he had of his wife's, to compare it with that which was just drawn; every body gave their judgment of the one and the other; and madam de Cleves ordered the painter to mend something in the head-dress of that which had been just brought in; the painter in obedience to her, took the picture out of the case in which it was, and having mended it, laid it again on the table.
The duke de Nemours had long wished to have a picture of madam de Cleves; when he saw that which monsieur de Cleves had, he could not resist the temptation of stealing it from a husband, who, he believed, was tenderly loved; and he thought that among so many persons as were in the same room he should be no more liable to suspicion than another.
The queen-dauphin was sitting on the bed, and whispering to madam de Cleves, who was standing before her. Madam de Cleves, through one of the curtains that was but half-drawn, spied the duke de Nemours with his back to the table, that stood at the bed's feet, and perceived that without turning his face he took something very dextrously from off the table; she presently guessed it was her picture, and was in such concern about it, that the queen-dauphin observed she did not attend to what she said, and asked her aloud what it was she looked at. At those words, the duke de Nemours turned about, and met full the eyes of madam de Cleves that were still fixed upon him; he thought it not impossible but she might have seen what he had done.
Madam de Cleves was not a little perplexed; it was reasonable to demand her picture of him; but to demand it publicly was to discover to the whole world the sentiments which the duke had for her, and to demand it in private would be to engage him to speak of his love: she judged after all it was better to let him keep it, and she was glad to grant him a favour which she could do without his knowing that she granted it. The duke de Nemours, who observed her perplexity, and partly guessed the cause of it, came up, and told her softly, If you have seen what I have ventured to do, be so good, madam, as to let me believe you are ignorant of it; I dare ask no more. Having said this he withdrew, without waiting for her answer.
The queen-dauphin went to take a walk, attended with the rest of the ladies; and the duke de Nemours went home to shut himself up in his closet, not being able to support in public the ecstasy he was in on having a picture of madam de Cleves; he tasted everything that was sweet in love; he was in love with the finest woman of the court; he found she loved him against her will, and saw in all her actions that sort of care and embarrassment which love produces in young and innocent hearts.
At night great search was made for the picture; and having found the case it used to be kept in, they never suspected it had been stolen, but thought it might have fallen out by chance. The prince of Cleves was very much concerned for the loss of it; and after having searched for it a great while to no purpose, he told his wife, but with an air that showed he did not think so, that without doubt she had some secret lover, to whom she had given the picture, or who had stole it; and that none but a lover would have been contented with the picture without the case.
These words, though spoke in jest, made a lively impression in the mind of madam de Cleves; they gave her remorse, and she reflected on the violence of her inclination which hurried her on to love the duke of Nemours; she found she was no longer mistress of her words or countenance; she imagined that Lignerolles was returned; that she had nothing to fear from the affair of England, nor any cause to suspect the queen-dauphin; in a word, that she had no refuge or defence against the duke de Nemours but by retiring; but as she was not at her liberty to retire, she found herself in a very great extremity, and ready to fall into the last misfortune, that of discovering to the duke the inclination she had for him. She remembered all that her mother had said to her on her death-bed, and the advice which she gave her, to enter on any resolutions, however difficult they might be, rather than engage in gallantry: she remembered also what monsieur de Cleves had told her, when he gave an account of madam de Tournon. She thought she ought to acknowledge to him the inclination she had for the duke de Nemours, and in that thought she continued a long time; afterwards, she was astonished to have entertained so ridiculous a design, and fell back again into her former perplexity of not knowing what to chuse.
The peace was signed; and the lady Elizabeth, after a great deal of reluctance, resolved to obey the king her father. The duke of Alva was appointed to marry her in the name of the Catholic king, and was very soon expected. The duke of Savoy too, who was to marry the king's sister, and whose nuptials were to be solemnised at the same time, was expected every day. The king thought of nothing but how to grace these marriages with such diversions as might display the politeness and magnificence of his court. Interludes and comedies of the best kind were proposed, but the king thought those entertainments too private, and desired to have somewhat of a more splendid nature: he resolved to make a solemn tournament, to which strangers might be invited, and of which the people might be spectators. The princes and young lords very much approved the king's design, especially the duke of Ferrara, monsieur de Guise, and the duke de Nemours, who surpassed the rest in these sorts of exercises. The king made choice of them to be together with himself the four champions of the tournament.
Proclamation was made throughout the kingdom, that on the 15th of June, in the city of Paris, his most Christian majesty, and the princes Alphonso d'Eté duke of Ferrara, Francis of Loraine duke of Guise, and James of Savoy duke of Nemours, would hold an open tournament against all comers. The first combat to be on horse-back in the lists, with double armour, to break four lances, and one for the ladies; the second combat with swords, one to one, or two to two, as the judges of the field should direct; the third combat on foot, three pushes of pikes, and six hits with the sword. The champions to furnish lances, swords, and pikes, at the choice of the combatants. Whoever did not manage his horse in the career to be put out of the lists; four judges of the field to give orders. The combatants who should break most lances and perform best, to carry the prize, the value whereof to be at the discretion of the judges: all the combatants, as well French as strangers, to be obliged to touch one or more, at their choice, of the shields that should hang on the pillar at the end of the lists, where a herald at arms should be ready to receive them, and enrol them according to their quality, and the shields they had touched: the combatants to be obliged to cause their shields and arms to be brought by a gentleman, and hung up at the pillar three days before the tournament, otherwise not to be admitted without leave of the champions.
A spacious list was made near the Bastille, which begun from the Chateau des Tournelles and crossed the street of St. Anthony, and extended as far as the king's stables; on both sides were built scaffolds and amphitheatres, which formed a sort of galleries that made a very fine sight, and were capable of containing an infinite number of people. The princes and lords were wholly taken up in providing what was necessary for a splendid appearance, and in mingling in their cyphers and devices somewhat of galantry, that had relation to the ladies they were in love with.
A few days before the duke of Alva's arrival, the king made a match at tennis with the duke de Nemours, the chevalier de Guise, and the viscount de Chartres. The queens came to see them play, attended with the ladies of the court, and among others madam de Cleves. After the game was ended, as they went out of the tennis court, Chatelart came up to the queen-dauphin, and told her fortune had put into his hands a letter of gallantry, that dropped out of the duke de Nemours's pocket. This queen, who was always very curious in what related to the duke, bid Chatelart give her the letter; he did so, and she followed the queen her mother-in-law, who was going with the king to see them work at the lists. After they had been there some time, the king caused some horses to be brought that had been lately taken in; and though they were not as yet thoroughly managed, he was for mounting one of them, and ordered his attendants to mount others. The king and the duke de Nemours hit upon the most fiery and high mettled of them. The horses were ready to fall foul on one another, when the duke of Nemours, for fear of hurting the king, retreated abruptly, and ran back his horse against a pillar with so much violence that the shock of it made him stagger. The company ran up to him, and he was thought considerably hurt; but the princess of Cleves thought the hurt much greater than anyone else. The interest she had in it gave her an apprehension and concern which she took no care to conceal; she came up to him with the queens, and with a countenance so changed, that one less concerned than the chevalier de Guise might have perceived it. Perceive it he immediately did, and was much more intent upon the condition madam de Cleves was in, than upon that of the duke de Nemours. The blow the duke had given himself had so stunned him, that he continued some time leaning his head on those who supported him; when he raised himself up, he immediately viewed madam de Cleves, and saw in her face the concern she was in for him, and he looked upon her in a manner which made her sense how much he was touched with it: afterwards he thanked the queens for the goodness they had expressed to him, and made apologies for the condition he had been in before them; and then the king ordered him to go to rest.
Madam de Cleves, after she was recovered from the fright she had been in, presently reflected on the tokens she had given of it. The chevalier de Guise did not suffer her to continue long in the hope that nobody had perceived it, but giving her his hand to lead her out of the lists, I have more cause to complain, madam, said he, than the duke de Nemours; pardon me, if I forget for a moment that profound respect I have always had for you, and show you how much my heart is grieved for what my eyes have just seen; this is the first time I have ever been so bold as to speak to you, and it will be the last. Death, or at least eternal absence, will remove me from a place where I can live no longer, since I have now lost the melancholy comfort I had of believing that all who behold you with love are as unhappy as myself.
Madam de Cleves made only a confused answer, as if she had not understood what the chevalier's words meant: at another time she would have been offended if he had mentioned the passion he had for her; but at this moment she felt nothing but the affliction to know that he had observed the passion she had for the duke de Nemours.
Madam de Cleves, when she came out of the lists, went to the queen's apartment, with her thoughts wholly taken up with what had passed. The duke de Nemours came there soon after, richly dressed, and like one wholly insensible of the accident that had befallen him; he appeared even more gay than usual; and the joy he was in for what he had discovered, gave him an air that very much increased his natural agreeableness. The whole court was surprised when he came in; and there was nobody but asked him how he did, except madam de Cleves, who staid near the chimney pretending not to see him. The king coming out of his closet, and seeing him among others called him to talk to him about his late accident. The duke passed by madam de Cleves, and said softly to her, Madam, I have received this day some marks of your pity, but they were not such as I am most worthy of. Madam de Cleves suspected that he had taken notice of the concern she had been in for him, and what he now said convinced her she was not mistaken; it gave her a great deal of concern, to find she was so little mistress of herself, as not to have been able to conceal her inclinations from the chevalier de Guise; nor was she the less concerned to see that the duke de Nemours was acquainted with them; yet this last grief was not so entire, but there was a certain mixture of pleasure in it.
The queen-dauphin, who was extremely impatient to know what there was in the letter which Chatelart had given her, came up to madam de Cleves. Go read this letter, says she; it is addressed to the duke de Nemours, and was probably sent him by the mistress for whom he has forsaken all others: if you cannot read it now, keep it, and bring it me about bed-time, and inform me if you know the hand. Having said this, the queen-dauphin went away from madam de Cleves, and left her in such astonishment, that she was not able for some time to stir out of the place. The impatience and grief she was in not permitting her to stay at court, she went home before her usual hour of retirement; she trembled with the letter in her hand, her thoughts were full of confusion, and she experienced I know not what of insupportable grief that she had never felt before. No sooner was she in her closet, but she opened the letter and found it as follows:
'I Have loved you too well, to leave you in a belief that the change you observe in me is an effect of lightness; I must inform you, that your falsehood is the cause of it. You will be surprised to hear me speak of your falsehood; you have dissembled it with so much skill, and I have taken so much care to conceal my knowledge of it from you, that you have reason to be surprised at the discovery; I am myself in wonder, that I have discovered nothing of it to you before; never was grief equal to mine; I thought you had the most violent passion for me; I did not conceal that which I had for you, and at the time that I acknowledged it to you without reserve, I found that you deceived me, that you loved another, and that, in all probability, I was made a sacrifice to this new mistress. I knew it the day you run at the ring, and this was the reason I was not there. At first I pretended an indisposition in order to conceal my sorrow; but afterwards I really fell into one, nor could a constitution delicate like mine support so violent a shock. When I began to be better, I still counterfeited sickness, that I might have an excuse for not seeing and for not writing to you; besides I was willing to have time to come to a resolution in what manner to deal with you; I took and quitted the same resolution twenty times; but at last I concluded you deserved not to see my grief, and I resolved not to show you the least mark of it. I had a desire to bring down your pride, by letting you see, that my passion for you declined of itself: I thought I should by this lessen the value of the sacrifice you had made of me, and was loth you should have the pleasure of appearing more amiable in the eyes of another, by showing her how much I loved you; I resolved to write to you in a cold and languishing manner, that she, to whom you gave my letters, might perceive my love was at an end: I was unwilling she should have the satisfaction of knowing I was sensible that she triumphed over me, or that she should increase her triumph by my despair and complaints. I thought I should punish you too little by merely breaking with you, and that my ceasing to love you would give you but a slight concern, after you had first forsaken me; I found it was necessary you should love me, to feel the smart of not being loved, which I so severely experienced myself; I was of opinion that if anything could rekindle that flame, it would be to let you see that mine was extinguished; but to let you see it through an endeavour to conceal it from you, as if I wanted the power to acknowledge it to you. This resolution I adhered to, I found it difficult to take; and when I saw you again I thought it impossible to execute. I was ready a hundred times to break out into tears and complaints; my ill state of health, which still continued, served as a disguise to hide from you the affliction and trouble I was in; afterward I was supported by the pleasure of dissembling with you, as you had done with me; however, it was doing so apparent a violence to myself to tell you, or to write to you that I loved you, that you immediately perceived I had no mind to let you see my affection was altered. You was touched with this, you complained of it. I endeavoured to remove your fears, but it was done in so forced a manner, that you was still more convinced by it I no longer loved you: in short, I did all I intended to do. The fantasticalness of your heart was such, that you advanced towards me in proportion as you saw I retreated from you. I have enjoyed all the pleasure which can arise from revenge. I plainly saw, that you loved me more than you had ever done; and I shewed you I had no longer any love for you. I had even reason to believe that you had entirely abandoned her, for whom you had forsaken me; I had ground too to be satisfied you had never spoken to her concerning me: but neither your discretion in that particular, nor the return of your affection, can make amends for your inconstancy; your heart has been divided between me and another, and you have deceived me; this is sufficient wholly to take from me the pleasure I found in being loved by you, as I thought I deserved to be; and to confirm me in the resolution I have taken, never to see you more, which you are so much surprised at.'
Madam de Cleves read this letter, and read it over again several times, without knowing, at the same time, what she had read; she saw only that the duke de Nemours did not love her as she imagined, and that he loved others who were no less deceived by him than she. What a discovery was this for a person in her condition, who had a violent passion, who had just given marks of it to a man whom she judged unworthy of it, and to another whom she used ill for his sake! Never was affliction so cutting as hers; she imputed the piercingness of it to what had happened that day; and believed that if the duke de Nemours had not had ground to believe she loved him, she should not have cared whether he loved another or not: but she deceived herself; and this evil which she found so insupportable was jealousy, with all the horrors it can be accompanied with. This letter discovered to her a piece of gallantry the duke de Nemours had been long engaged in. She saw the lady who writ it was a person of wit and merit, and deserved to be loved. She found she had more courage than herself, and envied her the power she had had of concealing her sentiments from the duke de Nemours. By the close of the letter, she saw this lady thought herself beloved, and presently suspected, that the discretion the duke had showed in his addresses to her, and which she had been so much taken with, was only an effect of his passion for this other mistress, whom he was afraid of disobliging. In short, she thought of everything that could add to her grief and despair. What reflections did she not make on herself, and on the advices her mother had given her! How did she repent, that she had not persisted in her resolution of retiring, though against the will of monsieur de Cleves; or that she had not pursued her intentions of acknowledging to him the inclination she had for the duke of Nemours! She was convinced, she would have done better to discover it to a husband, whose goodness she was sensible of, and whose interest it would have been to conceal it, than to let it appear to a man who was unworthy of it, who deceived her, who perhaps made a sacrifice of her, and who had no view in being loved by her but to gratify his pride and vanity: in a word, she found, that all the calamities that could befal her, and all the extremities she could be reduced to, were less than that single one of having discovered to the duke de Nemours that she loved him, and of knowing that he loved another: all her comfort was to think, that after the knowledge of this she had nothing more to fear from herself, and that she should be entirely eased of the inclination she had for the duke.
She never thought of the orders the queen-dauphin had given her, to come to her when she went to rest: she went to bed herself, and pretended to be ill; so that when monsieur de Cleves came home from the king, they told him she was asleep. But she was far from that tranquillity which inclines to sleep; all the night she did nothing but torment herself, and read over and over the letter in her hand.
Madam de Cleves was not the only person whom this letter disturbed. The viscount de Chartres, who had lost it and not the duke de Nemours, was in the utmost inquietude about it. He had been that evening with the duke of Guise, who had given a great entertainment to the duke of Ferrara his brother-in-law, and to all the young people of the court: it happened that the discourse turned upon ingenious letters; and the viscount de Chartres said he had one about him the finest that ever was writ: they urged him to show it; and on his excusing himself, the duke de Nemours insisted he had no such letter, and that what he said was only out of vanity; the viscount made him answer, that he urged his discretion to the utmost, that nevertheless he would not show the letter; but he would read some parts of it, which would make it appear few men received the like. Having said this, he would have taken out the letter, but could not find it; he searched for it to no purpose. The company rallied him about it; but he seemed so disturbed, that they forbore to speak further of it: he withdrew sooner than the others, and went home with great impatience, to see if he had not left the letter there. While he was looking for it, one of the queen's pages came to tell him, that the viscountess d'Usez had thought it necessary to give him speedy advice, that it was said at the queen's court, that he had dropped a letter of gallantry out of his pocket while he was playing at tennis; that great part of what the letter contained had been related; that the queen had expressed a great curiosity to see it, and had sent to one of her gentlemen for it; but that he answered, he had given it to Chatelart.
The page added many other particulars which heightened the viscount's concern; he went out that minute to go to a gentleman who was an intimate friend of Chatelart's; and though it was a very unseasonable hour, made him get out of bed to go and fetch the letter, without letting him know who it was had sent for it, or who had lost it. Chatelart, who was prepossessed with an opinion that it belonged to the duke of Nemours, and that the duke was in love with the queen-dauphin, did not doubt but it was he who had sent to redemand it; and so answered, with a malicious sort of joy, that he had put the letter into the queen-dauphin's hands. The gentleman brought this answer back to the viscount de Chartres, which encreased the uneasiness he was under already, and added new vexations to it: after having continued some time in an irresolution what to do, he found that the duke de Nemours was the only person whose assistance could draw him out of this intricate affair.
Accordingly he went to the duke's house, and entered his room about break of day. What the duke had discovered the day before with respect to the princess of Cleves had given him such agreeable ideas, that he slept very sweetly; he was very much surprised to find himself waked by the viscount de Chartres, and asked him, if he came to disturb his rest so early, to be revenged of him for what he had said last night at supper. The viscount's looks soon convinced him, that he came upon a serious business; I am come, said he, to entrust you with the most important affair of my life; I know very well, you are not obliged to me for the confidence I place in you, because I do it at a time when I stand in need of your assistance; but I know likewise, that I should have lost your esteem, if I had acquainted you with all I am now going to tell you, without having been forced to it by absolute necessity: I have dropped the letter I spoke of last night; it is of the greatest consequence to me, that nobody should know it is addressed to me; it has been seen by abundance of people, who were at the tennis court yesterday when I dropped it; you was there too, and the favour I have to ask you, is, to say it was you who lost it.—Sure you think, replied the duke de Nemours smiling, that I have no mistress, by making such a proposal, and that I have no quarrels or inconveniences to apprehend by leaving it to be believed that I receive such letters.—I beg you, said the viscount, to hear me seriously; if you have a mistress, as I doubt not you have, though I do not know who she is, it will be easy for you to justify yourself; and I will put you into an infallible way of doing it. As for you, though you should fail in justifying yourself, it can cost you nothing but a short falling out; but for my part, this accident affects me in a very different manner; I shall dishonour a person who has passionately loved me, and is one of the most deserving women in the world; on the other side, I shall draw upon myself an implacable hatred that will ruin my fortune, and perhaps proceed somewhat further.—I do not comprehend what you say, replied the duke de Nemours; but I begin to see that the reports we have had of your interest in a great princess are not wholly without ground.—They are not, replied the viscount; but I would to God they were: you would not see me in the perplexity I am in; but I must relate the whole affair to you, to convince you how much I have to fear.
Ever since I came to court, the queen has treated me with a great deal of favour and distinction, and I had grounds to believe that she was very kindly disposed towards me: there was nothing, however, particular in all this, and I never presumed to entertain any thoughts of her but what were full of respect; so far from it, that I was deeply in love with madam de Themines; anyone that sees her may easily judge, 'tis very possible for one to be greatly in love with her, when one is beloved by her; and so I was. About two years ago, the court being at Fontainbleau, I was two or three times in conversation with the queen, at hours when there were very few people in her apartment: It appeared to me, that my turn of wit was agreeable to her, and I observed she always approved what I said. One day, among others, she fell into a discourse concerning confidence. I said there was nobody in whom I entirely confided; that I found people always repented of having done so; and that I knew a great many things of which I had never spoke. The queen told me, she esteemed me the more for it; that she had not found in France any one that could keep a secret, and that this was what had embarrassed her more than anything else, because it had deprived her of the pleasure of having a confidant; that nothing was so necessary in life as to have somebody one could open one's mind to with safety, especially for people of her rank. Afterwards she frequently resumed the same discourse, and acquainted me with very particular circumstances; at last, I imagined she was desirous to learn my secrets, and to entrust me with her own; this thought engaged me strictly to her. I was so pleased with this distinction, that I made my court to her with greater assiduity than usual. One evening the king and the ladies of the court rode out to take the air in the forest, but the queen being a little indisposed did not go; I staid to wait upon her, and she walked down to the pond-side, and dismissed her gentlemen–ushers, that she might be more at liberty. After she had taken a few turns, she came up to me, and bid me follow her; I would speak with you, says she, and by what I shall say, you will see I am your friend. She stopped here, and looking earnestly at me, You are in love, continued she; and because perhaps you have made nobody your confidant, you think that your love is not known; but it is known, and even by persons who are interested in it: you are observed, the place where you see your mistress is discovered, and there is a design to surprise you; I don't know who she is, nor do I ask you to tell me; I would only secure you from the misfortunes into which you may fall. See, I beseech you, what a snare the queen laid for me, and how difficult it was for me not to fall into it; she had a mind to know if I was in love; and as she did not ask me who I was in love with, but let me see her intention was only to serve me, I had no suspicion that she spoke either out of curiosity or by design.
Nevertheless, contrary to all probability, I saw into the bottom of the matter; I was in love with madam de Themines; but though she loved me again, I was not happy enough to have private places to see her in without danger of being discovered there, and so I was satisfied she could not be the person the queen meant; I knew also, that I had an intrigue with another woman less handsome and less reserved than madam de Themines, and that it was not impossible but the place where I saw her might be discovered; but as this was a business I little cared for, it was easy for me to guard against all sorts of danger by forbearing to see her. I resolved therefore to acknowledge nothing of it to the queen, but to assure her on the contrary that I had a long time laid aside the desire of gaining women's affections, even where I might hope for success, because I found them all in some measure unworthy of engaging the heart of an honourable man, and that it must be something very much above them which could touch me.—You do not answer me ingenuously, replied the queen; I am satisfied of the contrary; the free manner in which I speak to you ought to oblige you to conceal nothing from me; I would have you, continued she, be of the number of my friends; but I would not, after having admitted you into that rank, be ignorant of your engagements; consider, whether you think my friendship will be too dear at the price of making me your confidant; I give you two days to think on it; but then, consider well of the answer you shall make me; and remember that if ever I find hereafter you have deceived me, I shall never forgive you as long as I live.
Having said this, the queen left me without waiting for my answer. You may imagine how full my thoughts were of what she had said to me; the two days she had given me to consider of it I did not think too long a time to come to a resolution; I found she had a mind to know if I was in love, and that her desire was I should not be so; I foresaw the consequences of what I was going to do; my vanity was flattered with the thought of having a particular interest with the queen, and a queen whose person is still extremely amiable: on the other hand, I was in love with madam de Themines; and though I had committed a petty treason against her by my engagement with the other woman I told you of, I could not find in my heart to break with her; I foresaw also the danger I should expose myself to, if I deceived the queen, and how hard it would be to do it: nevertheless I could not resolve to refuse what Fortune offered me, and was willing to run the hazard of anything my ill-conduct might draw upon me; I broke with her with whom I kept a correspondence that might be discovered, and was in hopes of concealing that I had with madam de Themines.
At the two days end, as I entered the room where the queen was with all the ladies about her, she said aloud to me, and with a grave air that was surprising enough, Have you thought of the business I charged you with, and do you know the truth of it?—Yes, madam, answered I, and it is as I told your majesty.—Come in the evening, when I am writing, replied she, and you shall have further orders.—I made a respectful bow without answering any thing, and did not fail to attend at the hour she had appointed me. I found her in the gallery, with her secretary and one of her women. As soon as she saw me she came to me, and took me to the other end of the gallery; Well, says she, after having considered thoroughly of this matter, have you nothing to say to me? and as to my manner of treating you, does not it deserve that you should deal sincerely with me?—It is, madam, answered I, because I deal sincerely, that I have nothing more to say; and I swear to your majesty, with all the respect I owe you, that I have no engagement with any woman of the court.—I will believe it, replied the queen, because I wish it; and I wish it, because I desire to have you entirely mine, and because it would be impossible for me to be satisfied with your friendship, if you were in love; one cannot confide in those who are; one cannot be secure of their secrecy; they are too much divided, and their mistresses have always the first place in their thoughts, which does not suit at all with the manner in which I would have you live with me: remember then, it is upon your giving me your word that you have no engagement, that I choose you for my confidant; remember, I insist on having you entirely to myself, and that you shall have no friend of either sex but such as I shall approve, and that you abandon every care but that of pleasing me; I'll not desire you to neglect any opportunity for advancing your fortune; I'll conduct your interests with more application than you can yourself; and whatever I do for you, I shall think myself more than recompensed, if you answer my expectations; I make choice of you, to open my heart's griefs to you, and to have your assistance in softening them; you may imagine they are not small: I bear in appearance without much concern the king's engagement with the duchess of Valentinois, but it is insupportable to me; she governs the king, she imposes upon him, she slights me, all my people are at her beck. The queen, my daughter-in-law, proud of her beauty, and the authority of her uncles, pays me no respect. The constable Montmorency is master of the king and kingdom; he hates me, and has given proofs of his hatred, which I shall never forget. The mareschal de St. André is a bold young favourite, who uses me no better than the others. The detail of my misfortunes would move your pity; hitherto I have not dared to confide in any body; I confide in you; take care that I never repent it, and be my only consolation. The queen blushed, when she had ended this discourse, and I was so truly touched with the goodness she had expressed to me, that I was going to throw myself at her feet: from that day she has placed an entire confidence in me; she has done nothing without advising with me; and the intimacy and union between us still subsists.