Louis had walked on to his devotions in no very charitable frame of
mind, as was easily to be seen from his clouded brow and compressed
lips. He knew his late favourite well, her impulsiveness, her audacity,
her lack of all restraint when thwarted or opposed. She was capable of
making a hideous scandal, of turning against him that bitter tongue
which had so often made him laugh at the expense of others, perhaps even
of making some public exposure which would leave him the butt and gossip
of Europe. He shuddered at the thought. At all costs such a
catastrophe must be averted. And yet how could he cut the tie which
bound them? He had broken other such bonds as these; but the gentle La
Valliere had shrunk into a convent at the very first glance which had
told her of waning love. That was true affection. But this woman would
struggle hard, fight to the bitter end, before she would quit the
position which was so dear to her. She spoke of her wrongs. What were
her wrongs? In his intense selfishness, nurtured by the eternal
flattery which was the very air he breathed, he could not see that the
fifteen years of her life which he had absorbed, or the loss of the
husband whom he had supplanted, gave her any claim upon him. In his
view he had raised her to the highest position which a subject could
occupy. Now he was weary of her, and it was her duty to retire with
resignation, nay, even with gratitude for past favours. She should have
a pension, and the children should be cared for. What could a
reasonable woman ask for more?

And then his motives for discarding her were so excellent. He turned
them over in his mind as he knelt listening to the Archbishop of Paris
reciting the Mass, and the more he thought, the more he approved. His
conception of the deity was as a larger Louis, and of heaven as a more
gorgeous Versailles. If he exacted obedience from his twenty millions,
then he must show it also to this one who had a right to demand it of