Old Court Life in France, Volume II (of 2)

Yet there must have been some charm about the hard-featured, stalwart youth that attracted her; she would not say, "No." In order to throw down a bait, she hinted that she desired him to change his religion.

"Impossible, madame," was the reply of Lord St. Germains. "A king of England cannot change his religion. He would exclude himself for ever from the throne!"

Again, however, Charles was permitted to approach her, and to make a last attempt. She relished a little mild flirtation with an exiled King, although she vastly preferred marriage with an Emperor. Nevertheless, she curled her hair in honour of the occasion, a thing not usual with her.

"Ah, look at her!" said the Queen-Regent, when she appeared in the evening: "it is easy to see she is expecting a lover. See! – how she is decked out!"

Mademoiselle blushed, but was too discreet to commit herself by a single word.

When Charles Stuart entered the Queen's saloon he looked provokingly well. His mother, nervously alive to every trifle, felt this. A man with such a constitution was not adapted to play the part of a despairing lover. When questioned by the Queen about his affairs in England, he replied that he knew nothing. Mademoiselle instantly formed a bad opinion of him. She turned to her lady in waiting, Madame de Fiesque, and whispered —

"He is too much of a Bourbon for me. Quite engrossed by trifles" (the race has not changed). "He can talk about dogs and horses and the chase to her Majesty, but he has nothing to say about the revolution in England."

Later in the evening, at the royal table, Mademoiselle was shocked at Charles's coarse appetite. He despised ortolans and Italian pastry, and threw himself upon a joint of beef. Not satisfied with that, he ended by a shoulder of mutton. "A despairing lover ought not to have such a monstrous appetite, or he should satisfy the cravings of hunger beforehand," thought Mademoiselle. He stared fixedly at her, with his big black eyes shaded by heavy eyebrows, while he was shovelling huge pieces of meat down his throat, but he never spoke. Truly this was not a fashion of pushing his suit with a fastidious princess who desired to be an empress!

Mademoiselle yawned, looked at him under her eyelids, shrugged her shapely shoulders, and called her lady in waiting to her side to amuse her. Thus passed the precious moments which were to decide the momentous question – would she, or would she not?

At length, having gorged in a prodigious manner, Charles Stuart rose. He made Mademoiselle a formal bow, and opened his mouth to speak for the first time. "I hope," he said, in very bad French, "my Lord St. Germains has explained to your highness the sentiments with which you have inspired me. I am, madame, your very humble servant."

Mademoiselle rose to her feet, made him a formal curtsey, and replied, "Sir, I am your very humble servant."

So ended this wooing; but poor Henrietta Maria, figuratively rending her clothes and sprinkling ashes on her head at such a conclusion, could not let Mademoiselle off without one Parthian shot. "I see," said she, "my son is too poor and too unfortunate for you, my niece. It is quite possible, however, that a king of eighteen may be better worth having than an elderly emperor with four children." This little ebullition of spite is pardonable in an unfortunate Queen whose heart was broken. Let it not lie heavy on her memory!

Meanwhile, the struggle between the Queen-Regent and her ministers on one side, and the parliament and Gondi on the other, had become more and more envenomed. At length the Queen-Regent, under advice of Mazarin, resolved by a coup d'état to restore the royal authority.

It is Twelfth-night. Anne of Austria is spending the evening in her closet, watching the King and his brother, the Duc d'Anjou – both dressed in character – struggle on the floor over the remains of the cake from which they had dug the "bean" and the "ring." Louis XIV. is a handsome boy, docile yet spirited; Philip of Anjou is puny, peevish, and cowardly.

Anne of Austria leans against the back of a chair, and watches the two boys. Her ladies watch her. There is a strange rumour that her Majesty is to leave Paris that very night. To look into her placid face, such an idea seems absurd. By-and-by, Mazarin and some of the princes of the blood come in to ask her pleasure for the morrow. They do not remain, as there is a supper at the Maréchal de Grammont's in honour of the day. When they are gone, the Queen turns to Madame de la Trémouille.

"I shall go to-morrow to the Val de Grâce. Give orders that everything may be ready for me. Call Beringhen; it is time for his Majesty and the Duke to go to bed."

The King at once comes forward to bid his mother good night. The Duke begins to cry.

"What is it, my son?" says the Queen.

"I want, Madame, to go with you to the Val de Grâce to-morrow – do let me!" and he kneels and kisses her hand.

"If I go, my son, I promise to take you. Now, good night, Philip," and she raises him in her arms, and kisses him; "do not keep his Majesty waiting."

She retires early. Those ladies who do not sleep at the Palais Royal leave, and the gates are closed.

At three o'clock in the morning, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, at the Palace of the Luxembourg, is awakened by a violent knocking. She rouses her women, and orders them to see who is there. It is a messenger from the Queen.

"Let him enter," says Mademoiselle, speaking from her bed. It is well to say that Mademoiselle was entirely concealed by heavy curtains, and that the bed stood in a deep alcove.

"The Captain of the Queen's Guard awaits your highness's pleasure," calls out Monsieur de Comminges, from the door.

"What has brought you here at this time of night, Comminges?" asks Mademoiselle from her bed.

"Your Highness, the Court is leaving Paris secretly. Her Majesty commands your attendance. Here is a letter which will explain the Queen's wishes.

"Monsieur de Comminges," replies Mademoiselle, – who at that time had not conceived the possibility of being one of the à la mode leaders of the Fronde, and pointing the guns of the Bastille against her cousin, the King – putting the letter under her pillow, "the commands of her Majesty are sufficient for me. I need no letter to enforce them. Retire, Monsieur le Capitaine, into the anteroom. I will rise instantly, and accompany you. But tell me, Monsieur de Comminges," – calling after him – "where are we to go to?"

"To Saint-Germain en Laye, your highness."

In a short time Mademoiselle is ready. Without waiting for her women, or what she calls her "equipage" (which she desired to have sent after her), she goes out into the night accompanied by Monsieur de Comminges, whose coach waits without. It was pitch dark, but with the help of a flambeau they traverse the unpaved and ill-lit streets, and reach the garden entrance of the Palais Royal without accident. There they find another coach drawn up under some trees. Within sits Anne of Austria; the two princes are each in a corner – Louis XIV. very sleepy and cross, the Duc d'Anjou crying. Mademoiselle is instantly transferred into the royal coach.

"Are you frightened, my cousin?" asks the Queen, speaking out of the darkness to Mademoiselle.

"Not in the least, Madame," is her reply. "I will follow your Majesty anywhere," and she takes her place opposite to her in the coach.

It is a long and weary drive to Saint-Germain. When they arrive it is breakfast time. But the Queen commands every creature, including her children, into the chapel to hear mass. As soon as they had time to look round, they find the palace (a dreary, gaunt edifice at all times) cold and wretched beyond description in a dark January morning. The rooms are entirely empty – Mazarin having made no provision for the Queen's arrival, out of fear, perhaps, that her flight might become known. There are neither beds, furniture, nor linen. There is not a servant or attendant of any kind but such as have accompanied them. When it is night the Queen lies down to rest on a little camp bedstead. The King and his brother fare no better. Mademoiselle is accommodated with a straw mattress in a magnificent saloon on the third floor. There were plenty of mirrors and much gilding, and the windows were lofty, and commanded an extensive view, but there is not a single pane of glass in one of them! No one has a change of linen. What was worn by night was washed by day. The Queen laughs at everything. She says – "It is an escapade which will at most last three days; when the citizens find that the Court has left the Palais Royal they will speedily come to their senses."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE LADIES' WAR

WHEN the citizens of Paris find that the Court had left the Palais Royal, instead of coming to their senses, they were furious. The Coadjutor, who had broken with the Regent, ruled supreme. He skilfully availed himself of the crisis, and caused the parliament to pass the act against aliens. This measure outlawed Mazarin as an enemy of the King and of the State, a conspirator, a perjurer, and a thief; confiscated his possessions, and enjoined all faithful subjects to shoot him without trial.

Civil war breaks out. The troops of the Queen-Regent were but feebly attacked. It was the hearts of her generals that were vigorously assailed by the lady commandants of the Fronde, whose artillery was blandishments and enticements.

Every soul in Paris armed himself, and took the field in whatever costume he usually wore. The nobles led the way in feathered hats, satin doublets, silk stockings, and high-heeled boots. No one knew what they were fighting for. The cry was, "Vive la Fronde!" "Mort à Mazarin!"

The Duchesse de Longueville, supported by her brother, the great Condé, took possession of the executive government at the Hôtel de Ville. She was quickly joined by the Duchesses de Chevreuse and de Montbazon. The Duc de Beaufort was set at liberty. But as it was quite a "Ladies' War," he acted only as subordinate. The Duchesses distributed all the military posts and honours among themselves – they created themselves generals, lieutenants, and colonels, like so many Bellonas. War was waged on quite new principles: Maréchal d'Hocquincourt, defending Peronne for the Queen-Regent, assured the Duchesse de Montbazon, who invested it for the Fronde, "That Peronne was at the service of the fairest of the fair."

Not so la Grande Mademoiselle. She ranged herself on the popular side against the Court, and commanded at the Bastille. She fought in good earnest, and pointed the well-loaded guns of that fortress against her King and cousin, who, with his army, lay encamped without the walls of Paris. Louis retreated precipitately to Saint-Denis.

We are in the Hôtel de Ville, within the apartment of one of the very prettiest aides-de-camp attached to the Duchesse de Longueville. This fair lady, Mademoiselle de Rosny, has just finished a most elaborate toilette, and having arranged the innumerable little curls (then so much in vogue) round her face, and fastened the proper quantity of ribbon in her dark locks, takes a last fond look in the glass, and then seats herself in the happiest possible state of expectation. Now there is a certain all-conquering beau – Monsieur d'Aumale by name – who has more than half achieved the conquest of her heart; and she has a kind of presentiment that the morning will not pass without a visit from this pearl of cavaliers. Nor is she mistaken: a soft knock at her door announces the approach of some one. How her heart beats! It must be M. d'Aumale! So she says "Entrez!" in a trembling voice, and D'Aumale stands before her.

"Mademoiselle de Rosny," he exclaims, "I am in the utmost haste, I am come to beg you to be present at the most singular spectacle you ever beheld!"

"What may it be?" replies she, rather chagrined that instead of a tender love-scene, such as she anticipated, M. d'Aumale seems so preoccupied.

"It is but a review, mademoiselle, ordered by the council; but, ha! ha! such a review! Morbleu, you will never guess of whom – the oddest idea! It is no other than a review of priests, monks, and seminarists, all sword in hand, and ready to charge the enemy. It is the strangest idea of defence that ever was conceived; but as we have lady-generals, and the Grande Mademoiselle for commander-in-chief, we are now to have an army of priests for them to lead to battle. Those tonsured recruits are actually now all assembling on the bridge near Notre-Dame. You must be quick."

"Was ever anything so ridiculous!" and Mademoiselle de Rosny laughs. "But I shall be terrified at their awkwardness; they will be sure to fire too low and hit us."

"Oh, but you must come. I will be your guard; I pledge myself that you shall return uninjured," and D'Aumale gives the lady a tender glance. "Besides, to reassure you, I believe that these monk-warriors are not even to be trusted with matches; the arquebuses and cannon are as empty and as innocent as when in the arsenal; so there is nothing to fear. If you will come, I will conduct you in my new coach – the very model of elegance – I will answer for it there is not such another in all Paris."

"That will be delightful!" cries the lady. "I do admire those new coaches so much, if it were not for this abominable war, I suppose they would become universal. Well, Monsieur d'Aumale, I am ready! let us see these monks; it will be a good story with which to entertain Madame la Duchesse de Longueville this evening at her reception. How the Duc de Beaufort will laugh!"

In high glee Mademoiselle de Rosny departed, accompanied by her admirer, her pleasure not a little heightened by the idea of appearing in a coach, then by no means common in Paris, and reserved generally for royalty, or for grand occasions, or state processions – heavy lumbering vehicles, such as figure in the old prints of that period, with a sloping roof like a house, and drawn by Flemish horses of huge dimensions. On arriving near the bridge, they stop under the shadow of the Cathedral, and there behold the most extraordinary spectacle. All the young monks in Paris are crowded near Notre-Dame, with the exception of the Benedictines and some other orders, who refused to take any part in this mummery. At least fifteen hundred ecclesiastics, drawn up in excellent order, are executing the various manœuvres of march, halt, right-about face, etc., with tolerable precision. The greater number have fastened up their black robes, and invested their lower limbs with most uncanonical garments. The reverend fathers, with their hoods hanging over their shoulders, are booted and spurred, many wear helmets and cuirasses, and all carry such halberts, lances, swords, and bucklers as they had been able to lay hands on. Others grasp a crucifix in one hand, and in the other a pistol, a scythe, an old dagger or a knife, with which each intends to perform prodigies of valour against the enemies of the Fronde. As they advance and retreat on the dusty soil in lines and columns, they present the appearance of an immense flight of crows hovering over a field of newly cut wheat.

To this martial array is added the clamour of drums, trumpets, and warlike instruments, accompanied with no end of benedictions, Oremus, and chanted psalms. At the head of the troops is a bishop, metamorphosed into a commander. He moves very slowly, by reason of his corpulence, and the weight of the armour he wears, and looks like a dilapidated St. George, minus the dragon. Then come Carthusians, Begging Friars, Capuchins, and Seminarists, each different order led by their abbot or prior. They all advance gravely with the orthodox goose-step. Cries of "Down with the Regent!" "Death to Mazarin!" "A bas the Italian beggar!" "Long live the Union!" "Vive la Duchesse!" "Vive la Fronde!" add to the clamour of the martial music and the psalms. Mademoiselle de Rosny is fain to hold both her ears, notwithstanding all the sweet things her companion is whispering. The mob of Paris en masse is assembled to witness this extraordinary review, and to rejoice in the unexpected aid contributed by the Church in the general emergency. Nor is M. d'Aumale's the only coach on the Quai Notre-Dame that day; many other possessors of such vehicles have been attracted by the scene. The Legate is among the number. The crowd is immense, the applause enthusiastic.

"Ciel!" calls out Mademoiselle de Rosny, on a sudden. "Look – Oh, look! Monsieur d'Aumale, you have deceived me, I am sure. They are going to fire!"

"No, no," replies D'Aumale, "believe me, you are mistaken. 'Give the monk his rosary, the soldier his sword,' says the motto. Messieurs les moines will not venture to burn their hands in attempting to handle firearms."

"But I tell you," cries the lady, "they are going to fire! Good heavens, the guns are all turned this way! Oh, D'Aumale, we shall be murdered. Help! help! I implore you!" And she catches hold of him, and begins to scream after the most approved fashion preparatory to a fit of hysterics.

D'Aumale looks out of the window. "In the name of Heaven, beware – beware!" he shouts to the priests. But in the confusion his voice is inaudible. The ecclesiastical artillerymen, awkward and inexperienced, have already lighted the matches, and the cannon, which were loaded, explode right and left in the crowd. A fearful cry arises from the Legate's coach.

"Thank Heaven, D'Aumale, we have escaped, – this time at least," gasps Mademoiselle de Rosny in a low voice, for she is now calmed by excessive fear.

"Yes, but I fancy some one else has been seriously wounded. I will alight and see," says D'Aumale, unfastening the door.

A dense crowd surrounds the coach belonging to the Legate. The secretary of his eminence had been shot dead by a bullet through the chest, the Legate's confessor is wounded in the head, and his two valets also much injured. Never was there such confusion. M. d'Aumale hastens back to secure the safe retreat of the fair De Rosny. They are soon disengaged from the crowd, and rolling back over the muddy ground to the Hôtel de Ville. Here we must bid them farewell, assuming that mademoiselle soon secured the possession of the much-admired coach by a speedy marriage with its handsome owner.

CHAPTER XV.

MAZARIN PLAYED OUT

THE marriage bells peal merrily for the august espousals of Louis XIV. with the Infanta Maria Theresa, daughter of the King of Spain. The troubles of the Fronde are over. Gondi, the Coadjutor, now Cardinal de Retz, is imprisoned. Cardinal Mazarin has cemented a peace between France and Spain. He has triumphed.

Mazarin left Paris with a great retinue of coaches, litters, and mules, attended by bishops, secretaries, lawyers, and priests, to meet the Spanish ambassador, Don Luis Da Haro, on the frontier, there to arrange the preliminaries of the treaty and the marriage. Don Luis had already arrived, attended with equal splendour. A whole month was lost in the all-important question of precedence. Should Mazarin call on Da Haro, or Da Haro "drop in" on Mazarin? This momentous point was never settled. Mazarin, the wily Italian —Il Signor Faquino, as the Prince de Condé calls him – took to his bed, hoping that the anxiety felt for his health by Da Haro would induce him to pocket his Castilian dignity and make the first advance. But Da Haro was not to be caught, and obstinately shut himself up, ate, drank, and made merry with the most dogged patience, and the most entire want of sympathy. So it ended in this wise – no visit was made at all. The great plenipotentiaries met, quite unofficially, on the Island of Pheasants, in the middle of the River Bidassoa, dividing France and Spain. There the real business was very soon despatched. In process of time, the King and the Infanta were married.

The Infanta was very small, fair, and plump. There was an utter absence of expression in her freshly complexioned face; her eyes were large and gentle, but said absolutely nothing of any soul within. Her mouth was large, her teeth were irregular. Her dress horrified the French ladies. It was unanimously voted tawdry, ill-made, and unbecoming. As for the ladies in attendance on her, it was not possible to find words to paint their grotesqueness. They were black-skinned, scraggy, and awkward. They had hideous lace, and wore enormous farthingales. One of them, the "governess of the Infanta," is gibbeted in the pages of history as "a monster." She unhappily wore what are designated as "barrels" under her dress. Such was the first effect of crinoline on the ladies of the French nation.

The Duchesse de Noailles was appointed lady of the bedchamber to the new Queen. She was recommended to this office by the Queen-dowager, Anne of Austria, her aunt.

Cardinal Mazarin has now reached the summit of power. He has imprisoned his rival, Cardinal de Retz, and has tranquillised a great nation. He has even received the solemn thanks of the once turbulent parliament. He has equalled, if not exceeded, the renown of Richelieu. After the sounding of those marriage bells he returns to Paris, to repose upon his laurels. See him! the artistic egotist, who all his life has fed on the choicest grapes from his neighbour's vine, and sipped the most fragrant honey from flowers not his own. See him within his magnificent palace, the outward and visible evidence of the enormous wealth which he no longer fears to display. Louis XIV. looks on him as a father. Anne of Austria trembles when he frowns. All France is subservient to his rule. The walls of his chamber are lined with artistic plunder: – pictures set in gorgeous frames of Florentine carving; statues, mirrors, and glittering chandeliers; tables and consoles bearing ornaments of inestimable value, in marble, bronze, porcelain, pottery, enamel, and gems. Richest hangings of tapestry, and brocaded satin and velvet, more costly than the gold which surrounds them, shade the intrusive sunshine, and tone all down to that delicious half light so dear to the artistic sense. Everything has been arranged by the hand of a master; and there he sits, this master, dying. The seeds of disease, sown on the frontier where he was detained by Da Haro, have developed into a mortal malady.

He has just risen from his bed. He reposes in a chair on wheels, in which he is rolled from frescoed gallery to marble vestibule; from corridors of pictures to precious libraries; from dainty retiring-rooms to painted pavilions, from guard-room saloon – those superb saloons where he received the Court.

He even penetrates to the stables, and surveys his priceless stud; he ventures into the magnificent gardens which surround his palace, to feast his eyes on all his vast possessions. Returning again, greatly fatigued, to the picture-gallery, he bids his attendants pause. He rests, absorbed in thought, under a Holy Family, by Raphael, a work beyond price, now in the Louvre. Here he desires his attendants to leave him. His secretary, who is never beyond call, he commands to wait his pleasure in the anteroom, behind the thick silken hangings that veil the door. Inadvertently this door is left ajar, and the secretary, curious to know what his master is doing, looks through a chink in the curtain, and watches him. The Cardinal, when he has glanced round carefully – to be sure he is alone – lays hold of a crutch placed ready to his hand, and with the utmost difficulty struggles to his feet, for they are swollen, and almost useless from gout. After many efforts he disengages himself from the chair, and reaches the ground, then, balancing himself upon the crutch and any object near at hand, he moves a few steps, stopping for lack of breath. (The secretary doubts if he should not rush in before he falls, so uncertain and tottering are Mazarin's movements, but he forbears, fearful of angering the Cardinal, whom suffering has made irritable.)

Mazarin sighs deeply as he limps on from picture to picture, and surveys his favourite works.

"I feel better," he says, speaking aloud. "If I could only get my breath, I should recover. Diamine! I shall – I will recover. I cannot leave my pictures – such a collection," – and he turns round with difficulty, and surveys the galleries – "not yet complete – to pass into other hands. No, no – it cannot be; I feel stronger already. I – alone in my gallery – without those spies always about me to see my weakness – I can breathe." And he draws a long breath. The long breath ends in a groan. "That divine Raffaello!" and again he sighs, and turns to the gem of his collection, a Nativity. "Raffaello is my religion. Credo in Raffaello! What anima! That exquisite Virgin! and the Christ nestling in her arms! I wonder who sat for that virgin? She must have been a perfect creature! I salute her di cuore. That picture came to me from the King of Spain – a bribe. Who cares? I never refuse a present. The King knows my taste. He sent me word there were many more to come if I concluded a peace. I did conclude a peace; I took that picture and others; but Sangue di Dio, I was faithful to France. Ah, ha! I was too sharp for him – a dull king! That torso there, dug up at Portici – what stalwart limbs! what grand proportions! How finely the shadows fall upon the thigh from that passing cloud. Aha! my foot!" (and he shakes on his crutches so violently the secretary's head and shoulders are inside the room, only the Cardinal does not see him). "I am better now," falters Mazarin, "much better"; then, taking a few steps onwards, he pauses before a Titian. "Venus, my Goddess! —Laus Veneri. Oh, the warmth of the flesh tints, the turn of that head and neck – divine! I gave a great price for that picture; but, Cospetto! it was not my own money," and he laughs feebly. "It will sell for double! That Paolo Veronese and that Tintoretto yonder came from the sale of Charles I. of England, after his execution – those English ruffians! What supple forms, what classic features! – like my native Romans in the Imperial city, where the very beggars think themselves equal to kings; and so they are, per Dio. Glorious Italy! Ah, cielo!" and he creeps on to a favourite landscape by Caracci, lit, as it were, by the living sunshine of the south. "Ah, that sun – I feel it – wonderful! wonderful! – a gem of the eclectic school of Bologna, given to me by the Archbishop. Poor man, he was not, like me, satisfied with art – ha, ha!" – his laugh ends in a severe fit of coughing. "He liked nature. He could not stand inquiry. – I helped him. Oh, my foot!" (And he totters so helplessly, that the secretary, watching him with curious eyes, again nearly rushes in; for if Mazarin dies his salary ceases.) Recovering, however, he steadies himself against the pedestal of a marble group just arrived from Rome, "Leda and the Swan." He drags himself with difficulty into the recess where it was placed, shifting his position, in order to catch the precise light in which to view the rounded limbs of the figure. "What grace, what abandon, in that female form! – a trifle leste for the gallery of a prelate – presented, too, by a lady – a woman of taste, above prejudices. No one has seen it. I must invite the Court – the Queen-mother will be scandalised. Ha, ha! the Queen-mother!" and he feebly winks and laughs; his laugh brings on another fit of convulsive coughing. (The secretary is on the threshold.) "I must not die before I have disposed of my pictures," Mazarin mutters, breathing again; "I cannot bear to die! – now, too, that I have triumphed over all my enemies." The Cardinal sighs heavily, shakes his head, and casts a longing glance round the painted walls. He tries to move onwards; but his strength fails him, suddenly his hands are cramped, the crutch falls on the floor, he groans, sinks into a chair, and faintly calls for assistance.