Louis welcomed them back with great rejoicing. He was delighted with his dear Duchesse. At all the balls and masques he was at her side.
On one of these occasions, Henriette turned to the girl beside her and said to Louis: “Louise greatly impressed my brother.”
“Was that so?” said Louis.
“Indeed yes. He begged me to leave her with him in England.”
Louis looked with amusement at Louise, who had cast down her eyes.
“And did you wish to stay, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle?” he asked.
“If Madame had stayed, I should have wished to, Sire,” said Louise. “My wish is to serve Madame.”
“That is as it should be,” said Louis. “Serve her well. She deserves good service.”
His gaze was kind and doting. His mother was dead now; so was Madame’s mother, and he and Madame could not be reproved because they were so much together. None would dare reprove Louis now.
Louis laughed suddenly. “The King of England is governed by women, they say. I could tell you tales of the King of England, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, but I would not do so before Madame who loves him dearly, nor would I wish to bring the blushes to your cheeks.”
“Your Majesty is gracious,” murmured Louise.
Louise was in her own apartments. She was stunned by the news. There had been a most unexpected turn of events, which she knew must affect the course of her life. Madame was dead.
It had happened so suddenly, though Madame had been frail for a long time. She had been dining with her women and, during the meal, they had thought how ill she looked; when it was over she had risen from the table and lain on some cushions; she felt exhausted, she had said. Then she had asked for a drink and, when Madame de Gourdon had brought her a glass of iced chicory water, she was in sudden and acute pain.
She had cried out that she was poisoned, and her eyes had turned accusingly to Monsieur who had come into the apartment. Everyone present had thought: Monsieur has poisoned Madame.
Louise, in extreme panic, had hurried out of the apartment to bring help. It was imperative that Madame be treated at once, for she looked close to death, and if she died what would become of Louise?
The doctors had come. The King had come. Louise witnessed the strange sight of the magnificent Louis kneeling by Madame, his handsome face distorted with grief; she had heard the sobs in his throat, and his muttered endearments.
But Louis could not save her; nor could the doctors. A few short weeks after her return from her brother’s Court Henriette d’Orléans was dead.
And now, thought Louise, what will become of me?
She waited for the summons to return to her father’s estate. She had failed. There was no place for her at Court; she realized that now.
Each day she expected the summons to come.
There was a summons; but not from her home.
Madame de Gourdon came to her one day. Poor Madame de Gourdon! She was a most unhappy woman. She was not allowed to forget that it was she who had brought the glass of iced chicory water to Madame. Rumor ran wild throughout the Court. Madame was poisoned, it was whispered. Monsieur had done this; and his partner in crime was the Chevalier de Lorraine, his latest friend. But who had administered the draught? One of Madame’s women. Why, it was Madame de Gourdon. In vain did Madame de Gourdon sob out her devotion to Madame. People looked at her with suspicion.
Now she spoke listlessly: “Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, the King wishes you to attend him immediately.”
“His Majesty!” cried Louise, springing to her feet and smoothing down the folds of her dress.
“I will take you to him,” said Madame de Gourdon. “He is ready to receive you now.”
The King had come to St. Cloud to see her! It was incredible. She could think of only one thing it could mean. He had noticed her after all.
If he had come to see her all would soon know it. They would talk of her as they talked of La Vallière and Montespan. And why not? She was as good-looking as La Vallière surely. She touched her chestnut hair. The soft curls reassured her, gave her courage.
“I will go and prepare myself,” she said.
“You cannot do that. His Majesty is waiting.”
He was striding up and down the small apartment when Madame de Gourdon conducted her thither.
Madame de Gourdon curtsied and left Louise alone with the King.
Louise went hurriedly forward and knelt as though in confusion, but a confusion which was charming. She had practiced this often enough.
“Rise, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle,” said the King. “I have something to say to you.”
“Yes, Sire?” she said, and she could not keep the breathless note from her voice.
He did not look at her. He was staring at the tapestry which covered the walls of this small chamber, as though to find inspiration there. Louise took a quick glance at his face and saw that he was trying to compose it. What could this emotion of the King mean?
She was prepared to register the utmost surprise when he should tell her he had noticed her. She would be confused, overcome with astonishment and modesty. She would stammer out her gratitude and her fear. She believed that was what Louis would expect. She had the shining example of La Vallière to follow.
The King began to speak slowly: “Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, I have just suffered one of the greatest griefs of my life.”
Louise did not speak; she merely bowed her head; the handsome eyes were turned upon her, and there were tears in them.
“And I know,” went on Louis, “that you too have suffered. Any who had lived near her must feel her loss deeply.”
“Sire …” murmured Louise.
The King raised his hand. “You have no need to tell me; I know. Madame’s death is a great loss to our Court, and none in that Court suffers as I do. Madame was my own dear sister and my friend.” He paused. “There is one other who suffers … almost as deeply as I. That is Madame’s brother—the King of England.”
“Indeed yes, Your Majesty.”
“The King of England is prostrate with grief. I have heard from him. He writes harshly. He has heard evil rumors, and he is insisting that if it be true that Madame was hurried to her death those who are her murderers should be discovered and dealt with. But, as I am sure you will have heard, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, at the autopsy which I insisted should be immediately performed, no poison was found in Madame’s body. She had been in bad health for some time, and the very chicory water of which she drank was drunk by others, and these suffered not at all. We know that it was Madame’s own ill health which resulted in her death, and no one here was in the least to blame. But the King of England bitterly mourns his sister whom he loved so well, and I fear we shall find it difficult to convince him. Now, Mademoiselle de Kéroualle, you are a very charming young lady.”
Louise drew a deep breath. Her heart was beating so fast that she could scarcely follow what the King was saying.
“And,” went on Louis, “I wish my brother of England to understand that my grief is as great as his own. I wish someone to convey my sympathy to him.”
“Sire,” said Louise, “you … you would entrust me with this mission?”
Louis’ large eyes were benign. He laid a white, heavily ringed hand on her shoulder. “Even so, my dear,” he said. “Madame herself has told me of a little incident which occurred while you were in England. King Charles was attracted by you; and, my dear Mademoiselle, it does not surprise me. It does not surprise me at all. You are most … most personable. I am going to send you to my brother in England to convey my sympathy and to assure him that Madame his sister has always been treated with the utmost tenderness in this land.”