Madame Louise of France.
THE KING’S eldest daughter awaited him in the great gallery of Lebrun, the same in which Louis XIV., in 1683, had received the Doge Imperiali and the four Genoese senators sent to implore pardon for the republic.
At the farther end of the gallery, opposite the door by which the king must enter, were three or four ladies of honor, who seemed in the utmost consternation. Louis arrived just at the moment when groups began to form in the vestibule, for the resolution which the princess had taken only that morning was now spreading on all sides through the palace.
The Princess Louise possessed a majestic figure and a truly regal style of beauty, yet a secret sadness had left its lines on her fair forehead. Her austere practice of every virtue, and her respect for the great powers of the State — powers which for the last fifty years had only obtained a semblance of respect from interest or from fear — had caused her to be regarded with veneration by the court. We must add that she was loved even by the people, although a feeling of disaffection toward their masters was now general. The word tyrants had not yet been heard.
She was loved because her virtue was not stern. She was not loudly talked of, but all knew that she had a heart. She manifested this every day by works of charity, while others only showed it by shameless self-indulgence. Louis XV, feared this daughter, for the simple reason that he esteemed her. There were even times when he went so far as to be proud of her; and she was the only one of his children whom he spared in his sharp raillery or his silly familiarities. He called her madame, while the Princesses Adelaide, Victoria, and Sophie, he named Loque, Chiffe, and Graille.* Since the period when Marshal Saxe carried with him to the tomb the soul of the Turennes and the Condes, and with the Queen Maria Leczinska passed away the governing mind of a Maria Theresa, all became mean and worthless around the throne of France. The Princess Louise, whose character was truly regal, and, compared with those around her, seemed even heroic, alone remained to adorn the crown, like a pearl of price amid false stones and tinsel. We should be wrong in concluding from this that Louis XV, loved his daughter. Louis, it is well known, loved no one but himself; we only affirm that he preferred her to all his other children.
*Tag, rag, and scrap.
When he entered, he found the princess in the center of the gallery, leaning on a table inlaid with crimson jasper and lapis lazuli. She was dressed entirely in black, and her beautiful hair, which was without powder, was covered by a double roll of lace. A deeper shade of sadness than usual rested on her brow. She looked at no one in the apartment, but from time to time her melancholy gaze wandered over the portraits of the kings of Europe which ornamented the gallery, at the head of whom were those of her ancestors, the kings of France.
The black dress which she wore was the usual traveling costume of princesses. It concealed large pockets, still worn as in the times of the good housewife-like queens, and the Princess Louise, imitating them in that also, had the numerous keys of her chests and wardrobes suspended at her waist by a gold chain.
The king’s face assumed a very serious expression when he saw how silent all in the gallery were, and how attentively they awaited the result of the interview between him and his daughter. But the gallery was so long that the spectators at either end might see, but they could not hear what passed — they had a right to see — it was their duty not to hear.
The princess advanced a few steps to meet the king, and taking his hand she kissed it respectfully.
“They tell me you are setting out on a journey, madame,” said he; “are you going into Picardy?”
“No, sire,” she replied.
“Then I presume,” said he in a louder voice, “that you are about to make a pilgrimage to Noirmontiers?”
“No, sire. I am going to retire to the convent of the Carmelites at St. Denis, of which you know I have the right to be abbess.”
The king started, but he preserved his countenance unmoved, although in reality his heart was troubled.
“Oh, no — no! my daughter!” he said, “you will not leave me. It is impossible you can leave me!”
“My dear father, it is long since I decided on abandoning the world — your majesty permitted me to make that decision — do not now, I entreat you, my dear father, oppose my wishes.”
“Yes, certainly, you wrung from me the permission of which you speak. I gave it, but still hoped that when the moment of departure came your heart would fail you. You ought not to bury yourself in a cloister — by acting so, you forget what is due to your rank — it is grief or want of fortune which makes the convent be sought as a refuge. The daughter of the king of France is certainly not poor; and, if she be unhappy, the world ought not to know it.”
The king’s thoughts and even his language seemed to become more elevated as he entered more and more into the part he was called on to play — that of a king and a father. This is, indeed, a part never played ill, when pride and regret inspire the actor.
“Sire,” replied the princess, perceiving her father’s emotion, and fearful that it might affect her more deeply than she desired at that moment, “Sire, do not by your tenderness for me weaken my resolution — my grief is no vulgar grief — therefore, my resolution to retire from the world is not in accordance with the usual customs of our day.”
“Your grief?” exclaimed the king, as if from a real impulse of feeling. “Have you, then, sorrows, my poor child?”
“Heavy, heavy sorrows, sire!”
“Why did you not confide them to me, my dearest daughter?”
“Because they are sorrows not to be assuaged by any mortal hand.”
“Not by that of a king?”
“Ah, no, sire!”
“Not by a father’s hand?”
“No, sire, no!”
“But you are religious, Louise; does not religion give you strength?”
“Not sufficient strength yet, sire; therefore, I retire to a cloister in order to obtain more. In silence God speaks to the heart of man — in solitude man communes with God.”
“But, in acting thus, you are making a sacrifice for which nothing can compensate. The throne of France casts a majestic shadow over the children of its kings — ought not this reflected greatness to be sufficient for you?”
“The shadow of the cell is better, sire — it refreshes the weary spirit — it soothes the strong as well as the weak — the humble as well as the proud — the high as well as the low.”
“Do you fear any danger by remaining? In that case, Louise, cannot the king defend you?”
“Sire, may God, in the first place, defend the king!”
“I repeat, Louise, that mistaken zeal leads you astray. It is good to pray, but not to pray always; and you — so good, so pious! — can you require such constant prayer?”
“Oh, my father! never can I offer up prayers enough to avert from us the woes which threaten us. If God has given me a portion of goodness — if for twenty years my only effort has been to purify my soul, I fear, alas! that I am yet far from having attained the goodness and the purity necessary for an expiatory sacrifice.”
The king started back and gazed at the princess with surprise. “Never have I heard you speak thus before, my dear child,” said he; “your ascetic life is making your reason wander.”
“Oh, sire, do not speak thus of a devotion the truest that ever subject offered to a king, or daughter to a father, in a time of need. Sire, that throne, of which you but now so proudly spoke as lending a protecting shade to your children — that throne totters. You feel not the blows which are dealt at its foundations, but I have seen them. Silently a deep abyss is preparing, which will engulf the monarchy! Sire, has any one ever told you the truth?”
The princess looked around to discover whether the attendants were fur enough to be out of hearing of her words, then she resumed:
“Well, sire, I know the truth! Too often have I heard the groans which the wretched send forth, when, as a Sister of Mercy, I visited the dark, narrow streets, the filthy lanes, the dismal garrets of the poor. In those streets, those lanes, those garrets, I have seen human beings dying of cold and hunger in winter, of heat and thirst in summer. You see not, sire, what the country is — you, who go merely from Versailles to Marly, and from Marly to Versailles. But in the country there is not grain — I do not say to feed the people, but even to sow for a new harvest — for the land, cursed by some adverse power, has received, but has given nothing back. The people, wanting bread, are filled with discontent. The air is filled in the twilight and at night with voices telling them of weapons, of chains, of prisons, of tyranny; and at these voices they awake, cease to complain, and commence to threaten. The parliaments demand the right of remonstrance — that is, the right to say to you openly what they whisper in private—’King, you are ruining the kingdom — save it! — or we shall save it ourselves.’ The soldiers, with their idle swords, furrow the land in which the philosophers have scattered the seeds of liberty. Men now see things which they formerly saw not, for our writers have laid all open to them — they know all that we do, and frown whenever their masters pass by. Your majesty’s successor is soon to be married. When Anne of Austria’s son was married, the city of Paris made presents to the new queen; now, it is not only silent, and offers nothing, but you have been obliged to use force to collect the taxes to pay the expense of bringing the daughter of Caesar to the palace of the son of St. Louis.
“The clergy had long ceased to pray to God; but, seeing the lands given away, privileges exhausted, coffers empty, they have begun again to pray for what they call the happiness of the people. And then, sire, must I tell you what you know so well — what you have seen with so much bitterness, although you have spoken of it to none? The kings, your brothers, who formerly envied us, now turn away from us. Your four daughters, sire, princesses of France, have not found husbands, and there are twenty princes in Germany, three in England, sixteen in the States of the North, without naming our relations, the Bourbons of Spain and Naples, who forget us, or turn away from us like the others. Perhaps the Turk would have taken us, had we not been daughters of his Most Christian Majesty. Not for myself, my father, do I care for this, or complain of it. Mine is a happy state, since it leaves me free; since I am not necessary to anyone of my family, and may retire from the world — in meditation and poverty may pray God to avert from your head, and from my nephew’s, the awful storm I see gathering on the horizon of the future.”
“My child! my daughter! it is your fears which make the future appear so dreadful.”
“Sire, sire, remember that princess of antiquity, that royal prophetess! She foretold to her father and to her brothers war, destruction, conflagration, and her predictions were laughed at — they called her mad! Do not treat me as she was treated! Take care, oh, my father! — reflect, my king!”
Louis XV. folded his arms, and his head sank on his bosom. “My daughter,” said he, “you speak very severely. Are those woes which you denounce caused by me?”
“God forbid that I should think so! They are the fruit of the times in which we live. You are whirled on in the career of events as we are all. Only listen, sire, to the applause in the theater which follows any allusion against royalty. See, in the evenings, what joyous crowds descend the narrow stairs of the galleries, while the grand marble staircase is deserted. Sire, both the people and the courtiers have made for themselves pleasures quite apart from our pleasures. They amuse themselves without us; or rather, when we appear in the midst of their pleasures, they become dull. Alas!” continued the princess, her eyes swimming with tears—”alas! poor young men, affectionate young women! — love, sing, forget, be happy! Here, when I went among you, I only disturbed your happiness. Yonder, in my cloister, I shall serve you! Here, you hid your glad smiles in my presence, for fear of displeasing me. There, I shall pray — oh, God! with all my soul — for my king, for my sisters, for my nephews, for the people of France — for all whom I love with the energy of a heart which no earthly passion has exhausted.”
“My daughter,” said the king, after a melancholy silence, “I entreat you not to leave me — not at this moment, at least; you will break my heart!”
The princess seized Ms hand, and, fixing her eyes full of love on his noble features—” No!” said she, “no, my father — not another hour in this palace! No, it is time for me to pray; I feel in myself strength to redeem, by my tears, those pleasures for which you sigh — you, who are yet young. You are the kindest of fathers, you are ever ready to pardon!”
“Stay with us, Louise! — stay with us!” said the king, pressing her to his heart.
The princess shook her head. “‘My kingdom is not of this world!” said she, disengaging herself from her father’s embrace. “Farewell, my father! — I have told you to-day what, for ten years, has laid heavy on my heart. The burden became too great. Farewell! I am satisfied — see, I can smile; I am now, at length, happy — I regret nothing!”
“Not even me, my daughter?”
“Ah, I should regret you, were I never to see you again; but you will sometimes come to St. Denis? You will not quite forget your child?”
“Oh, never, never!”
“Do not, my dear father, allow yourself to be affected. Let it not appear that this separation is to be a lasting one. My sisters, I believe, know nothing of it yet; ray women alone have been my confidantes. For eight days I have been making all my preparations; and I wish, that the report of my departure should only be spread when the great doors of St. Denis shall have closed on me; their heavy sound will prevent me from hearing any other.”
The king read in his daughter’s eyes that her resolution was irrevocable. He wished, therefore, that she should go without disturbance. If she feared that sobs might shake her resolution, he feared them still more for his nerves. Besides, he wished to go to Marly that day, and too much grief at Versailles might have obliged him to put off his journey. He reflected, also, that when issuing from some orgies unfit both for a king and a father, he should never more meet that grave, sad face, which seemed always to reproach him for the careless, worthless existence which he led; and this thought was not disagreeable to him.
“Be it, then, as you wish, my child!” said he; “but, at least, receive, before you go, the blessing of a father whom you have always made perfectly happy.”
“Give me your hand only, sire, and let me kiss it. Bestow your precious blessing on me in thought.”
To those who knew the decision of the princess, it was a solemn spectacle to see her at every step she made advancing, yet in life, to the tombs of her ancestors — those ancestors who, from their golden frames, seemed to thank her that she hastened to rejoin them.
At the door of the gallery the king bowed, and returned without uttering a word. The court, according to etiquette, followed him.