"Your Majesty honours me beyond expression," answered La Vallière, curtseying to the earth.
"Does the King know of your departure, Madame la Duchesse?"
"He will know it after I have acquainted your Majesty."
"Surely he will not consent?" asked the Queen.
La Vallière shook her head—"My mind is made up, Madame. If I live for one year, I shall be a professed Carmelite."
"I am sorry," replied Maria Theresa simply, "very sorry. If my good wishes can serve you, Madame la Duchesse, you have them most sincerely. Should you, however, carry out your intention, allow me to present you with the black veil. It is a public mark of respect I would willingly pay you."
La Vallière was so overcome she could not at once reply, then kissing the Queen's hand which she held out to her, she said: "Your Majesty's goodness makes me hope that, as you have deigned to pardon me, I may still, by a life of penitence, reconcile myself with God. I most humbly thank you."
This interview over, she returned to Versailles. She distributed her possessions as though she were already dead. She assembled her servants in her oratory, and earnestly craved their forgiveness for all that she had said or done amiss. She exhorted them to be devout, to keep the fasts of the Church, and to serve God. She was thus occupied until past midnight. Towards morning she called her coach, and bid her people drive her quickly towards Chaillot. As she passed along she gazed eagerly on the blooming country for the last time. It was the month of June. The orchards were laden with the promise of coming fruit; the newly mown grass, sparkling with morning dew, made the meadows glisten, the birds carolled in the hedge-rows, and the hills, embowered in forest, rose green against the azure sky. Louise was still young; it was her last look on that world which had once been so pleasant to her.
At six o'clock in the morning she arrived at the convent. The Superior, accompanied by all the nuns, apprised of her arrival, was in waiting to receive her.