"I have long adored you, and you only. During the whole time you have been at Court, I have been able but twice to address you alone, and to chance only did I even then owe that inexpressible privilege. It is impossible for me to endure this restraint any longer. If you feel as I do, you will not desire it. I have therefore commanded that my hunting-lodge at Versailles should be arranged as much as possible in accordance with your taste. There is a garden laid out, filled with the flowers you love; there are secluded lawns; there is the boundless forest. Above all, there is freedom. Come then, my Louise, and share with me this rural retreat—come where we can meet, unrestrained by the formalities of my Court. Bring with you any friend you please. At Versailles I hope to spend part of every week in your company. My happiness will be perfect; you will find me the most grateful of men. You will have nothing to fear. Do you dream calumny? Who would dare to attack a lady as pure as yourself? May I not claim your consent when I rely on your promise to grant whatever I ask? I feel that you cannot deny me, for you have repeated a thousand times that you trust my principles. You cannot doubt my honour. To refuse me would only be to insult me. Surely Louise, you would not do that! It would wound me to the very soul. It would destroy every hope of my future life. "(Signed) LOUIS." When Mademoiselle de Lafayette read this artful letter, which had been composed by Chavigny under the direction of Richelieu, and copied out by the King, she was utterly confounded. The fatal veil which had so long concealed the truth fell from her eyes. Even to a girl pure and simple as herself, all further delusion was impossible. This letter and the feelings that dictated it were not to be misunderstood. "Merciful heavens!" cried she, clasping her hands, "with what a tone of authority, with what assurance, he proposes to dishonour me! This, then, is the attachment I believed to be so pure! What! does he, the husband of the Queen of France, suppose that I would encourage a guilty passion! Wretch that I am! Instead of helping him, I have led him into sin! I had no right to engross his thoughts. He is already estranged from his wife, and I have severed them still further! O God! what will the Queen think of me? How can I atone for this horrible sin? I must—I will—reconcile them. Then God may forgive my involuntary crime!" Again and again, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she read and re-read the letter. She pressed the paper to her lips. The next moment she dashed it on the floor in an agony of remorse.