THE Court had removed from the Louvre to Saint-Germain, always the favourite abode of the melancholy monarch.
Louis suffered tortures from the galling restraints his position entailed upon him in his intercourse with Mademoiselle de Lafayette. He rarely saw her alone. When he addressed her, he was conscious that every eye was fixed upon them. Their correspondence, carried on by means of Chavigny, was, he felt, full of danger. His only comforter in his manifold troubles was this same treacherous Chavigny. Prompted by the Cardinal, Chavigny urged the King, on every possible occasion, to make some arrangement with Mademoiselle de Lafayette to meet in private. "If she loves you," said this unworthy tool, "if you really possess her heart, she will long to meet your Majesty with greater freedom as much as you can do. It is for you to make some such proposal to her. Do it, Sire; do it without delay, or I assure you the lady will think you careless and indifferent." Thus spoke Chavigny. Louis listened, meditated on what he said, and was convinced. He gave himself up to the most entrancing day-dreams.
The season was summer. The weather was hot, and the tall windows of the great saloon were thrown open. The Court had gathered round the Queen, who was engaged in a lively conversation with Mademoiselle de Montpensier, the young daughter of the Duc d'Orléans. Seeing that her services were not required, Louise de Lafayette, pensive and silent, stole away to the balcony outside the windows. She stood alone, lost in her own thoughts. With noiseless steps Louis approached her. He lent by her side over the balustrade, bending his eyes on the broad plains towards Paris.
"You are thoughtful, Sire," said Louise timidly. "Will you tell me your thoughts?"
"If I do," replied Louis, casting a fond glance upon her, "will you trust me with yours?"
A delicious tremor passed through her whole frame. She cast down her large grey eyes, and smiled. "Indeed I trust you, Sire," she murmured softly; "you know I do."
"But trust me more,—let our communion be more intimate. A brother's love is not more pure than mine," whispered the King; "but," and he hesitated and blushed, "I have never enjoyed the privilege of a brother." Louise raised her eyes inquiringly.
The King was greatly confused. "A brother—" and he stopped. Then, seeing her earnest look of curiosity—"A brother," he repeated, "salutes his sister: I have never enjoyed that privilege, Louise." He was scarcely audible. "Let my self-denial, at least, secure me all your confidence."
"Oh, Sire, you have it, entire and unreserved; you know it. I might distrust myself, but you, Sire, never, never!"