The Princesse De Cleves Read online

  The prince’s own state of mind was no better. His indiscretion in speaking to the Vidame de Chartres, and the lamentable consequences of that indiscretion, caused him mortal anguish. He could not recall the distress, anxiety and affliction in which he had seen Mme de Clèves, without being overcome by it. He was inconsolable at having said certain things to her about the matter which, pleasant and charming though they may have been in themselves, seemed to him at that moment coarse and ill-mannered, since they had given Mme de Clèves to understand that he knew she was this woman who was passionately in love, and he the object of her passion. All that he could desire was an opportunity to talk to her; but he felt this was something he ought rather to fear than to wish.

  ‘What should I have to tell her?’ he wondered. ‘Should I make further demonstration of what I have indicated to her only too clearly? Should I let her see that I know she loves me, when I have never even dared to tell her that I love her myself? Should I start to speak openly of my feelings, so that I will seem like a man emboldened by hope? Can I even consider going near her and daring to give her the anguish of having to bear the sight of me? How could I justify myself? I have no excuse, I am unworthy that Mme de Clèves should look at me, and hence do not hope that she will ever look at me again. Through my error, I have only given her still better means to protect herself against me than any she was seeking and, perhaps, seeking in vain. My foolishness has lost me the happiness and the distinction of being loved by the most lovable person in the world and the most worthy of love; but, had I lost this happiness without her having to suffer and without having inflicted this mortal pain on her, that would be a consolation to me; for, at this moment, I am suffering more from the harm I have done her, than from that I have done myself in her eyes.’

  M. de Nemours spent a long time with such distressing thoughts. He felt a recurrent desire to speak to Mme de Clèves. He considered how to find the means and thought of writing to her; but at last felt that, after the error he had committed and the mood she must be in, the best he could do would be to indicate his deep respect by his sorrow and his silence, even showing her that he did not dare come before her, and to wait for whatever time, chance and her liking for him might do in his favour. He also decided not to reprimand the Vidame de Chartres for his betrayal, in case this should reinforce his suspicions.

  The court was so preoccupied by Madame’s betrothal, which was to take place the following day, and by the wedding, the day after, that Mme de Clèves and M. de Nemours found it easy to hide their sadness and their anguish from public scrutiny. Even the Dauphine only spoke in passing to Mme de Clèves of their conversation with M. de Nemours, and M. de Clèves deliberately made no mention of anything that had occurred, so that she was less embarrassed by it than she had expected.

  The betrothal was held at the Louvre and, after the feast and the ball, the whole of the royal household went to spend the night, according to custom, at the bishop’s palace. In the morning, the Duc d’Albe, who only ever dressed very simply, put on a coat of gold cloth shot with the colour of fire and with yellow and black, encrusted with precious stones; he wore a closed crown on his head. The Prince d’Orange, no less magnificently dressed and attended in livery, and all the Spaniards followed by their servants, came to escort the Duc d’Albe from the Hôtel de Villeroi where he was staying, and set out, walking four by four, until they reached the bishop’s palace. As soon as he had arrived, they proceeded by rank to the church: the King leading Madame who also had a closed crown and her train supported by Mlle de Montpensier and Mlle de Longueville. The Queen walked behind, without a crown. After her, came the Reine Dauphine, Madame, the King’s sister, Mme de Lorraine and the Queen of Navarre, their trains supported by princesses. The Queens and the princesses all had their ladies-in-waiting splendidly attired in the same colours as themselves, so that you could know whose ladies they were by the colours in which they were dressed. They went up on to the dais that had been erected in the church and the marriage ceremony took place. Then they returned to dine at the bishop’s palace and, at five o’clock, left for the palace itself where the feast was to be held to which Parliament, the royal courts and the nobility of the town had been invited. The King, the Queens, princes and princesses ate at the marble table in the great hall of the palace, with the Duc d’Albe seated beside the new Queen of Spain. Beneath the steps leading to the marble table and on the King’s right hand was a table for the ambassadors, archbishops and knights of the order; on the other side, a table for members of the Parliament.

  The Duc de Guise, wearing a costume fringed with gold, served the King as Grand Master; the Prince de Condé as Steward; and the Duc de Nemours as Cupbearer. After the tables were removed, the ball began. There was an interlude for ballets and tableaux vivants, with theatrical machines, then the dancing resumed. At length, after midnight, the King and all the court returned to the Louvre. Sad though she was, Mme de Clèves appeared to everyone, and especially to M. de Nemours, incomparably beautiful. He dared not speak to her, though the crush at the ceremony gave him several opportunities; but he showed her such sadness in his looks and held back with such respectful timidity from approaching her, that she no longer believed him guilty, though he had said nothing to justify himself. On subsequent days, his conduct was the same and this same conduct had the same effect on the heart of Mme de Clèves.

  At last, the day came for the joust. The Queens took their places in the galleries and on the rostra prepared for them. The four champions appeared at the ends of the lists, with an assemblage of horses and liveries that composed the finest spectacle ever to be seen in France.

  The King had no colours other than white and black, which he always wore in deference to the widowhood of Mme de Valentinois. M. de Ferrare and all his attendants were in yellow and red; M. de Guise appeared in crimson and white: at first, the reason for his wearing these colours was not known; but it was recalled that they were those of a beauty whom he had loved when she was still unmarried and loved still, though he no longer dared declare it to her. M. de Nemours was in yellow and black; they tried to learn why, but in vain. Mme de Clèves had no difficulty in guessing: she remembered having said in his presence that she liked yellow and was sorry to be a blonde, since she could not wear that colour. He considered he could appear in it without indiscretion since, as Mme de Clèves did not use it, no one would suspect it of being hers.

  Never had so much skill been shown as by the four champions. Though the King was the best horseman in the realm, it was not clear to anyone on this occasion who had the advantage. M. de Nemours exhibited a grace in his every action that might have tipped the balance in his favour even among those less directly interested than Mme de Clèves. As soon as she saw him appear at the end of the lists, she was overwhelmed with emotion; and, whenever the prince was engaged in combat, she had difficulty in concealing her joy, if he carried it off with success.

  In the evening, when everything was almost done and they were ready to retire, the King (to the great misfortune of his country) declared he would break one more lance. He called on the Comte de Montgomery, who was a very skilful jouster, to take his place in the lists. The count begged the King to excuse him and put forward every argument he could find, but the King, on the verge of anger, sent to tell him that he was adamant. The Queen let the King know that she implored him to desist: he had done so well that he should be content and she begged him to return to her side. He answered that it was for love of her that he wished to joust on, and entered the field. She sent back M. de Savoie, to ask him once more to return; but in vain. He charged, the lances broke and a splinter from the Comte de Montgomery’s flew off into the King’s eye and lodged there. He fell instantly, and his squires and M. de Montmorency, who was one of the marshals of the field, ran to him. They were amazed at the extent of the wound, but the King showed no surprise. He said it was only slight, and that he forgave the count. One can imagine what anxiety and sorrow this unhappy accident caused, o
n a day that had been marked out for happiness. As soon as the King had been taken to his bed, the surgeons examined his wound and declared it to be very dangerous. The Connétable at that moment remembered the prediction made to the King, that he would be killed in single combat, and did not doubt it had come to pass as foretold.

  The accident was reported to the King of Spain, at that time in Brussels, who sent his own doctor, a man of great repute; but he pronounced the King’s case hopeless.

  There was no slight commotion in a court which was thus divided and rent by so many opposing factions, at the prospect of such an important event. Yet all these currents were hidden and there was no sign of concern apart from the one anxiety with the health of the King. The Queens, princes and princesses hardly left the antechamber of his room.

  Knowing that she was obliged to be there, that she would see M. de Nemours, that her embarrassment at seeing him could not be concealed from her husband; and knowing too that the mere presence of the prince would excuse him in her eyes and undermine all her resolve, Mme de Clèves decided she would pretend to be unwell. The court was too distracted to pay attention to what she did or to discover whether her illness was real or feigned. Only her husband could know the truth, but she was not sorry that he should know it. So she remained at home, little considering the great change that was about to take place: full of her own thoughts, she was entirely free to indulge in them. Everybody was at the King’s side. M. de Clèves returned from time to time, to give her the news. His behaviour towards her was just as it had always been, except that, when they were alone, there was something a little colder and less easy in it. He had not spoken again to her of what had occurred; and she had not had the strength, or even considered it proper to resume the discussion.

  M. de Nemours, who had expected to find a few moments when he might speak to Mme de Clèves, was most surprised and distressed at not having even the pleasure of seeing her. The King’s condition worsened to the point where, on the seventh day, the doctors despaired of his life. He accepted the certainty of death with extraordinary fortitude, all the more admirable since he was dying as the result of so unfortunate an accident, and at the prime of life, successful, worshipped by his people and loved by a mistress whom he, in turn, loved to distraction. The day before he died, he ordered that Madame, his sister, should be married without ceremony. The Duchesse de Valentinois’s state can well be imagined. The Queen did not permit her to see the King and sent to her for the monarch’s seals and the crown jewels, which were in her charge. The duchess asked if the King was dead, and when told he was not, replied:

  ‘Then no one is yet master over me, and no one can oblige me to give up what he entrusted to my care.’

  As soon as he was dead, at the Château de Tournelles, the Duc de Ferrare, the Duc de Guise and the Duc de Nemours conducted the Queen Mother, the King and the Queen, his wife, to the Louvre. M. de Nemours accompanied the Queen Mother. As they were setting out, on foot, she held back a few steps and told the Queen, her daughter-in-law, that she should go first; but it was easy to see that there was more of resentment than of civility beneath this compliment.

  BOOK FOUR

  The Cardinal de Lorraine had made himself absolute master of the Queen Mother’s 22 thoughts; the Vidame de Chartres had henceforth entirely lost favour with her, and his love for Mme de Martigues (as well as his love of freedom) prevented him even from appreciating the gravity of this loss. Throughout the ten days of the King’s illness, the cardinal had enough time to make plans and persuade the Queen to adopt a course favourable to his designs. In this way, as soon as the King was dead, the Queen ordered the Connétable to remain at Tournelles with the body of the late King, to perform the usual ceremonies. This commission ensured that he was removed from the scene of events and deprived him of any scope for action. He sent a messenger to the King of Navarre, telling him to come with all haste, so that they might combine forces against the Guise brothers, since he could see that they were about to concentrate power in their hands. The command of the armies was given to the Duc de Guise and control of finances to the Cardinal de Lorraine. The Duchesse de Valentinois was driven from the court, and the Connétable’s declared enemy, the Cardinal de Tournon, recalled, as was Chancellor Olivier, declared enemy of the Duchesse de Valentinois. In brief, the whole complexion of the court changed. The Duc de Guise put himself on a par with the princes of the blood in carrying the King’s mantle during the funeral ceremony; he and his brothers were utterly in control, not only because of the cardinal’s influence with the Queen, but because her opinion was that she could dismiss them if they were to cross her, while she could not dismiss the Connétable, who had the support of the princes of the blood.

  When the period of mourning was over, the Connétable came to the Louvre, where he was received very coldly by the King. He hoped for a private audience, but the King called for the Guise brothers and, in front of them, advised him to rest, saying that management of the army and of the state finances had been assigned and that, when he had need of his counsel, he would summon him to his presence. The Queen Mother received him with even greater coldness than the King, and went so far as to reprimand him for telling the late King that his children did not resemble him. The King of Navarre arrived, to no better welcome. The Prince de Condé, less imperturbable than his brother, complained openly, but his complaints were to no avail: he was dismissed from court on the pretext of his going to Flanders to sign the ratification of the peace treaty. The King of Navarre was shown a forged letter from the King of Spain, accusing him of encroaching on his domains; he was led to fear for his lands; and, finally, persuaded to make plans to return to Béarn. The Queen provided him with the means of doing so by entrusting Mme Elisabeth to his charge and even obliged him to go ahead of the princess. And, in this way, there was no one remaining at court who might offset the power of the House of Guise.

  Although it was irksome for M. de Clèves not to accompany Mme Elisabeth, he could have no complaint as to the rank of the person who was preferred over him. But he regretted not undertaking the task, less because of the honour that it would have brought, than because it would have removed his wife from court without there appearing to be any motive for his doing so.

  A few days after the King’s death, it was decided that the court would go to Reims for the coronation. As soon as the journey was mentioned, Mme de Clèves, who had been constantly at home, feigning illness, begged her husband to agree that she should not accompany the court, but instead go to Coulommiers to take the air and attend to her health. He replied that he did not want to know whether it was for reasons of health that she was prevented from making the journey, but that he consented to her wish. He agreed easily to something that he had already decided: much though he respected his wife’s virtue, he realized that it was unwise to allow her to remain close to a man whom she loved.

  M. de Nemours soon learned that Mme de Clèves would not accompany the court; he could not bear to leave without seeing her and, on the eve of his departure, went to her house as late in the day as propriety would allow, in order to find her alone. Fortune favoured his plans. As he entered the courtyard, he met Mme de Nevers and Mme de Martigues who were just leaving, and who told him that they had left her alone. As he went up the stairs, his emotions were so agitated that they can only be compared to those of Mme de Clèves, on being told that M. de Nemours was coming to see her. The fear that he might speak to her of his love, the apprehension that she might reply too favourably, the anxiety that the visit might cause her husband, and the anticipation of how hard it would be either to tell him these things or to conceal them from him, all presented themselves to her in an instant and plunged her into such turmoil that she decided to avoid the one thing that perhaps she desired most of all. She sent one of her ladies to M. de Nemours, who was then in the antechamber, to say that she had suddenly been taken ill and deeply regretted not being able to accept the honour of his visit. How mortified he was at not seein
g Mme de Clèves, and at not seeing her because she did not wish him to see her! He set off the next morning, with no further hope of a chance meeting. He had not spoken to her since their conversation at the Dauphine’s and had reason to believe that his error in speaking to the Vidame had destroyed all his hopes. In short, he left with everything that could intensify his already bitter regret.

  As soon as Mme de Clèves had somewhat recovered from her agitation at the idea of the prince’s visit, all her reasons for refusing him vanished. She even thought that she was wrong to have done so and, had she dared, or had it not now been too late, she would have recalled him.

  On leaving her, Mme de Nevers and Mme de Martigues went to the Dauphine’s; M. de Clèves was there. The princess asked where they had been, and they replied that they had just come from Mme de Clèves’s where they had spent a part of the afternoon with a large company, but left only M. de Nemours. These words, which they thought insignificant, were not so to M. de Clèves. He must have considered that M. de Nemours could find many opportunities to speak to his wife, yet the idea that he was with her, that they were alone and that he could speak to her of his love, struck him at that moment as something so unprecedented and so unbearable that he was consumed with a more violent feeling of jealousy than ever before. He could not remain at the Queen’s: he returned home, not even knowing why he was returning or whether he intended to surprise M. de Nemours. As soon as he came near his house, he searched for any sign that might indicate whether the prince was still there; he felt relief at discovering he was not and pleasure in the idea that his visit must have been brief. He told himself that perhaps it was not of M. de Nemours that he should be jealous and, though he did not really doubt it, sought to doubt; but so powerful was his conviction that he did not long remain in this welcome state of uncertainty. He went directly to his wife’s room and, after speaking to her for some time on trivial matters, felt compelled to ask her what she had done and whom she had seen; so she told him. When he noticed that she did not mention M. de Nemours, he asked, trembling, whether those were all she had seen, giving her the opportunity to speak the prince’s name and thus avoid the pain of her duplicity. Since she had not seen him, she said nothing, and M. de Clèves resumed, in a tone of voice that betrayed how affected he was: