Accordingly, to the utter despair of Le Nôtre, the ball took place in the greenhouses, metamorphosed, as if by magic, into a vast gallery, illumined by a thousand lustres, sparkling amid flowers and precious stones. Each fragrant orange-tree bore wax-lights amid its branches, and many lovely faces gleamed amongst the flowery thickets; while bright eyes watched the footsteps of the mighty master of the revel. The cutting north-east wind blew outside; poor wretches shivered on the pavement; but what did that matter while the court danced and laughed amid trees and flowers, and breathed the soft sweet summer air?
Maria Theresa did not mingle in the scene. Timid and retiring, the young Queen fled from the noisy gayety of the court, and usually remained with her aunt, the Queen Mother. On this occasion, therefore, the ball was presided over by Madame Henriette, and by Olympia Mancini, Countess of Soissons. The gentle La Vallière kept, modestly, in the background, until espied by the King, beneath the magnolia, which her companions had so recklessly despoiled of its flowers, and which had cost them exclusion from the fête.
The next moment the hand of Louise trembled in that of her sovereign; for Louis the Fourteenth had chosen the maid of honor for his partner in the dance. At the close of the evening, Le Nôtre, who had received private orders, brought forward his favorite rose-tree, transplanted into a richly-gilded vase. The poor man looked like a criminal approaching the place of execution. He laid the flower on a raised step near the throne; and on the front of its vase every one read the words which had formerly set Olympus in a flame—"To the most beautiful!"
Many rival belles grew pale when they heard the Duc de Lauzun ordered by Louis to convey the precious rose-tree into the apartment of Mademoiselle de la Vallière. But Le Nôtre rejoiced, for the fair one gave him leave to come each day and attend to the welfare of his beloved flower.
The rose-tree soon became to the favorite a mysterious talisman by which she estimated the constancy of Louis the Fourteenth. She watched with anxiety all its changes of vegetation, trembling at the fall of a leaf, and weeping whenever a new bud failed to replace a withered blossom. Louise had yielded her erring heart to the dreams of love, not to the visions of ambition. "Tender, and ashamed of being so," as Madame de Sevigné has described her, the young girl mourned for her fault at the foot of the altar. Remorse punished her for her happiness; and more than once has the priest, who read first mass at the chapel of Versailles, turned at the sound of stifled sobs proceeding from the royal recess, and seen there a closely-veiled kneeling figure.
The fallen angel still remembered heaven.
Thus passed ten years. At their end, the rose-tree might be seen placed on a magnificent stand in the Palace of St. Germain; but despite of Le Nôtre's constant care, the flower bent sadly on its blighted stem. Near it the Duchess de la Vallière (for so she had just been created) was weeping bitterly. Her most intimate friend, Françoise Athenaïs de Montemar, Comtesse de Montespan, entered, and exclaimed, "What, weeping, Louise! Has not the King just given you the tabouret as a fresh proof of his love?"
Without replying, La Vallière pointed to her rose.
"What an absurd superstition!" cried Madame de Montespan, seating herself near her friend. "'Tis really childish to fancy that the affections of a Monarch should follow the destiny of a flower. Come, child," she continued, playfully slapping the fair mourner's hands with her fan, "you know you are always adorable, and why should you not be always adored!"
"Because another has had the art to supplant me."