"But, madame, I am only a Gascon gentleman. None but a sovereign is a fit consort for your highness."
"I will make you a prince, Count," rejoins she, with a tender look. "I will create you Duc de Montpensier. I have wealth and dignities; both are yours."
Her eyes sparkle, her cheeks burn. An air of mingled power, pride, love, and exultation overspreads her face. Her tall figure is raised to its full height: she clasps the hand of Lauzun; he raises it to his lips.
"Your highness overwhelms me," he whispers, with genuine feeling. For an instant, Lauzun—the cold, heartless Lauzun—felt her influence. Could he really love this exalted lady, who had thus honoured him? He looks fixedly into her face, now transfigured by the deep passions that stirred her inmost soul. Could he love her? He, a penniless cadet, of an insignificant name? Etiquette set at defiance, a princess at his feet, enormous wealth, a royal dukedom in his grasp! Could he love her?—For a moment a rush of wild thoughts whirl through his brain. She worships him. He could make her life a long enchantment. He was about to kneel to her, to thank her, even to press her in his arms. But he stops and steadies himself. No—she is too old; wrinkles gather about her mouth, her fair hair is partly grey, the bloom has long faded from her cheeks, the fire of youth from her eye. What is she but an old maid, inflamed by a furious passion for a man greatly younger than herself? Should he, the brilliant Lauzun, burn incense on the altar of such an idol? Impossible. He would be the laughing-stock of the Court! His lively imagination grasps the whole situation in an instant. Lauzun's baser nature conquered. The momentary warmth fades out of his heart for ever. He heaves a sigh of relief.
"Monsieur de Lauzun," says Mademoiselle, far too much occupied with her own raptures to heed or to understand what was passing in his mind, "you sigh. Fear nothing; I will obtain his Majesty's permission for our speedy marriage."
Would Louis XIV. consent to the marriage of his cousin-german with a simple gentleman? Would Madame de Montespan, with whom Lauzun had intrigued, fall into this arrangement, or would she use her all-powerful influence against it? These are awful questions. Lauzun's blood ran cold when he thought of it. Madame de Montespan is treacherous, and as vindictive and clever as himself. Louvois, too, the minister, is his enemy.
Mademoiselle, however, ignorant of these dangers, acted without a moment's hesitation. She wrote a long letter to the King, announcing her choice, and asking for his consent. Lauzun saw and approved the letter. It was then confided to Bontemps, who carried it to his Majesty.
Louis did not vouchsafe an immediate answer. He sent word to his cousin that she had better reflect well upon what she was about to do. But the countenance of the royal Jupiter beamed upon his favourite Lauzun with undiminished warmth, and he was most affectionate to his cousin. Both naturally drew favourable augeries. Mademoiselle was now steeped in the sweets of an acknowledged passion. Lauzun condescended to be gracious, spite of some little eccentricities such as not always approaching her, or even replying to her when she addressed him—eccentricities attributed by her to his great modesty and discretion. Still, the King had not given his consent.
One evening his Majesty played late at écarté, so late indeed that it was two o'clock, and he was still at the table. Mademoiselle sat nodding on a brocaded fauteuil beside the Queen. She was determined to see every one out, and to speak to her royal cousin.
She longed so much to salute her lover Duc de Montpensier; to behold him raised to the Olympian circle that surrounded the family god. She longed for many things; life had of late become a delightful mystery to her. Each day unfolded some link in that delicious chain that bound her for ever to her adored Lauzun!