THE story of the Duchess de La Vallière, the first mistress of Louis XIV. of France, is regarded by some French writers as edifying as that of the repentant Magdalen. It forms the basis of several works of fiction, among which are a novel by Madame de Genlis, and one of the most effective of Dumas' romances. This virtuous interest taken in a tale of court scandal may illustrate the wide distance between French and English views of social morality.

Louise-Françoise De La Baume Le Blanc De La Vallière was born in August, 1644, at Touraine, of a distinguished family. Her mother was re-married to M. de St. Remi, chiefhouse-steward of Gaston, Duke of Orleans, and was attached to the court of this prince, and resided successively at Orleans and Blois. All the memoirs of that period give to her the character of a wise and good-natured woman. When the only brother of Louis XIV. married Henrietta of England, Mademoiselle de la Vallière was appointed her maid of honor. Amid the pleasures of a young and gallant court, she won esteem by her rectitude, her innate love of virtue, her gentleness and sincerity, her peculiar artlessness. Elizabeth Charlotte, Duchess of Orleans, said of her: "She had a perfect figure, her eyes appeared far more beautiful than those of Madame de Montespan, her deportment was modest. The only

defect in her appearance was a slight limp; but her glance had an inexpressible charm. She spoke with the innocent playfulness of childhood."

When the young girl began to share in the festivities of the court, she at first conceived for Louis XIV. a lively admiration, which feeling, before the beginning of his marked attention, speedily ripened into sincere love. It was in the diversions of Fontainebleau that the intimacy of their liaison commenced, and almost before she was aware, the childlike Mademoiselle de la Vallière forfeited her virtue to become the mistress of a king. It was not ambition or vanity that caused her fall, but self-sacrificing love for the monarch who consummated her ruin. She never, during her life, admitted another attachment. She concealed, as long as it was possible, the actualities of her position from the other ladies of the court, and especially from the Queen, Maria Theresa. Yet La Vallière had a friend who was destined to become her rival and supplanter-one who excelled in art and won her victories by stratagem-Madame de Montespan. There was a time, indeed, when La Vallière and De Montespan appeared together with the Queen at the fêtes at Versailles, at military reviews and at the frontiers. People hastened from all points to see the women who had basked in the brilliancy of the royal sun, and asked each other in all simplicity if they had seen the three queens. The true Queen, indeed, suffered torments of jealousy, and more than once she was heard to exclaim, with reference especially to Madame de Montespan, "That woman will be the death of me."

La Vallière bore four children, of whom only two lived beyond infancy; Marie-Anne de Bourbon, named Mademoiselle de Blois, and afterward Princess of Conti, who was born in 1666, and the Count of Vermandois, born in 1667. In the same year the King deeded her the duchy of Vaujour, and two baronies situated, the one in Touraine, and the other in Anjou, in favor of Mademoiselle de la Vallière and the princess, her daughter. After receiving this honor and after her children were legitimized, she was in despair, for she had believed that no one would know of her maternity. She called her daughter Mademoiselle, and the Princess called her

"belle maman." Madame de Sévigné said of La Vallière in 1680: "It is right to believe Madame de Montespan precisely the opposite of this pretty violet who hides under the leaf, and who was ashamed to be a mistress, a mother, a Duchess." A feeling of despair and shame did overtake her, and one morning she fled from the palace of the Tuileries to the Convent of Ste-Marie, at Chaillot; but she was persuaded to return to court. A second time she fled, and a second time the King induced her to return. Her feelings were now tortured by the presence of Madame de Montespan, who was advanced to the first place in the King's regard, and in 1674 Mademoiselle de la Vallière executed the resolution she had long contemplated. She retired, for the third time, to the

convent.

Her profession as a Carmelite nun took place on June 3, 1675, and the Queen herself gave her the black veil. But La Vallière was never more present to the King's thoughts than after she had abandoned his court. Never had she appeared so adorable to him as when the sight of her had been forbidden him. But the Duchess, now become Sister Louise of Mercy, said that if the King came to her convent, she would hide herself so effectually that he could not find her. When she lost her brother in 1676, the King sent her word that if he were a good enough man to see a Carmelite so pious as she, he would go in person to tell her how he regretted the loss she had sustained. Louis XIV. joyfully granted all she asked, not for herself, but for her relatives, and was glad to learn that the Queen and all the court gave the pious Carmelite marks of their interest and veneration. The Queen often visited her husband's former mistress, and Sister Louise redoubled her austerities. She also received, as an inmate of the convent, Madame de Montespan, once her friend, afterwards her rival, now her repentant sister. June 6, 1710, after a long and serious illness, La Vallière died in the midst of nuns to whom her gentleness and kindness had long given delight. The Princess de Conti, notified too late, reached the Carmelite convent only in time to see her mother breathe her last. She was buried at Paris in the Carmelite Church of the Rue Saint-Jacques.

Thirty-six years of austere penitence in the strictest conventual enclosure, and severe mortifications, did not seem to the Duchess de la Vallière a sufficient expiation for the griefs she had occasioned the saintly Queen, Maria Theresa. She wrote a devotional work which was edited by Bossuet, and a collection of her letters was published about half a century after her death.

THE ROYAL Lover.

Among the festivities at Fontainebleau in July, 1661, a ballet took place, in which both the King and the Duchess of Orleans bore an active part; Louis XIV. figured on the occasion as Ceres; and the Grand Monarque, who resented the most trifling want of respect from those around him, made his appearance in a Greek tunic and a coronet of golden wheatears; declaimed his own praises in the rhymes of Benserade; and, finally, figured in this unregal costume before the eyes of the whole court. At the termination of the ballet, the company dispersed themselves about the park, where they found in every direction tables sumptuously provided, of which the honors were done by nymphs and forest deities, crowned with ivy; but all these magnificent arrangements were almost unheeded by Mademoiselle de la Vallière, who was absorbed by the image of the king-goddess, whom she had so lately seen exhibiting the graces of his person amid applauding crowds; and she at length felt the gayety by which she was surrounded so oppressive that she suggested to Mesdemoiselles de Chalais, de Tonnay-Charente (afterwards Madame de Montespan), and de Montalais, that they should walk into the forest and repose themselves for a time in one of its dim recesses.

To this proposal they willingly consented; and after strolling for awhile, listening to the nightingales and watching the stars, which from time to time peeped through the foliage as it swayed beneath the voluptuous breeze of evening, they finally seated themselves under a large tree upon the border of the wood, and began to discuss anew the pleasures of the day and the chief actors in the gay scene which had formed their principal feature. For a time Louise bore no share in the conversation; but she was at length startled from her

silence by an appeal to her judgment, when she unguardedly declared that she could give no opinion upon the subject discussed, and was only surprised that any man should be remarked beside the King.

This reply drew down upon her, as a natural consequence, the sarcasm of the whole party, who accused her of being so difficult that nothing save a crowned head would satisfy her vanity; when the poor girl, anxious to exculpate herself from a charge which she felt must overwhelm her with ridicule, should it become the gossip of the court, hastily exclaimed that they did her injustice; for that his crown could add nothing to his natural advantages; but was, on the contrary, the safeguard of those about him, as without it he would indeed be doubly dangerous.

She had no sooner made this unwise rejoinder than she became aware of the extent of her imprudence; and while her three companions remained silent in astonishment, she sprung from the ground to escape, and discovered that two men were partially concealed behind the tree against which she had been leaning. A faint shriek instantly directed the attention of the whole party to the fact, and, terrified beyond control, they simultaneously fled in the direction of the chateau, where they arrived panting and breathless.

Once alone in her apartment, whither she immediately hastened, Louise de la Vallière wept bitterly over the folly of which she had been guilty. It was the first time that she had ventured to express her feelings, and the long pent-up secret had escaped her she knew not how, although she was painfully conscious of the ridicule with which it was calculated to overwhelm her. In the agony of her repentance she flung herself upon her knees, and earnestly prayed that the consequences of her fault might be averted; but her emotion and alarm were, nevertheless, so great, that for a couple of days she was unable to perform her duties, or even to leave her room. Now, for the first time, she felt in their full force the difficulties of the position which she had coveted; and she trembled as she looked forward to again appearing before the malicious eyes of the court. There was, however, no alternative; and she was at length compelled to make the trial.