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

The secretary is with him in an instant, and summons the attendants. Weary, and utterly exhausted, they lay him on his bed, where he weeps and groans, as much from anguish of mind as from bodily pain. He feels that nothing can amuse or delight him more, neither singing men nor singing women, the wonders of art, or the flattery of Courts. From henceforth to him the world must evermore be mute; the flowers in the gardens he has created shall no longer fling their scented blossoms at his feet; to him the birds are dumb in the groves he has planted, the fruits cease to be luscious, and the sun is already darkened by the shadow of death. His face turns of an ashy hue, and he feebly calls for his physician.

One of the many attendants that hover about his bed (each one hoping to be remembered in that will of his, of which all Paris has heard), flies to fetch him. He appears in the person of Guénaud, the Court doctor of that day.

Mazarin has revived a little. He is propped up on pillows, to relieve his breathing, which, by reason of the oppression on his chest, is laboured and difficult. At the sight of Guénaud he trembles; his teeth chatter. He has summoned the leech, and now he dares not hear what he has to say. Mazarin, with his sensuous Italian temperament, clings wildly to life. He shrinks from the dark horrors of the grave – he, who adores sunshine, warmth, open air, and beauty.

"Well, Guénaud, well. You are in haste to come to me."

"Your eminence sent for me," replied the physician gravely, bowing to the ground; then he contemplates the Cardinal with that all-seeing eye for obvious symptoms and for remote details, that makes the glance of a doctor so awful to the sick.

"I – I am better, Guénaud – much better, now; I had fatigued myself among my pictures. But I did much, Guénaud – I did too much. I even crawled to my stables – to my garden; I am gaining strength. To-morrow – "

Mazarin stops; a severe fit of coughing almost suffocates him. Again the ashy hue – grey as the shadows of departing day when the sun has set – overcasts his features. Guénaud does not reply, but still contemplates his patient attentively. The Cardinal looks up; a hectic colour flushes his cheeks.

"Come," says he, "speak; be honest with me. I am better?" Guénaud bows.

"I trust so," replies he.

"Sangue di Dio!" – and the Cardinal grows crimson, and clenches his thin fingers with nervous agony – "speak. Your silence agitates me. What have you to tell me? How long have I to live? Shall I recover?"

Guénaud shakes his head. Mazarin's face again becomes of a sudden deadly pale. He leans back on his pillows, and sniffs a strong essence in a filigree bottle lying by his side. "Guénaud," says he, "I dread death, but I am no coward. I am prepared for the worst."

"I rejoice to hear it," answers the physician solemnly, feeling his pulse. "You will have need of all your fortitude."

"Is it so? Well, then, let me hear my fate!"

"Your eminence cannot live long. Nothing can save you."

A strange look of determination comes into the Cardinal's eyes as Guénaud speaks. Mazarin was, as he said, no coward; but the flesh was weaker than the spirit, and shrank from suffering and disease. Now that he has heard the truth, he bears it better than would appear possible in one so slight, nervous, and attenuated.

"I cannot flatter your eminence," continues Guénaud, "your disease is incurable; but I admit that remedies may prolong your life, though they cannot preserve it. Remedies, ably administered, can do much, even in fatal cases."

"I respect your frankness, doctor," says the Cardinal calmly. "Speak out, how long can I last?"

"Your eminence may hope to live for two months, perhaps, by following the rules I shall prescribe."

"Well, well – two months! Ah, it is a short time," – and a nervous spasm passes over his face, and his hands twitch with a convulsive spasm. "I do not die of old age; I have sacrificed my life to France and to the King. I never got over that negotiation at the Pyrenees. Well, well – so be it. At least, I know my fate. This interval must be consecrated to the care of my soul. Two months! I shall do my best. All my brother prelates will assist me – "

"To live, your eminence?"

"No, no, Guénaud," – and the shadow of a smile passes over his thin white lips, – "no, no, not to live, but to die; to die for the sake of the abbeys, bishoprics, and canonries my death will leave vacant. In two months one may have a world of indulgences; that is something. The Holy Father will rejoice at having my patronage; he is sure to give me a helping hand; and plenty of indulgences. I stand well with the Pope, Guénaud. But – but my pictures, my statues – a collection I have been making all my life, at such a vast expense. Who knows, Guénaud? you may be mistaken," he added, brightening up, his mercurial nature rushing back into its accustomed channel at the recollection of what had been the passion of his life. "Who knows, I may get better!" and his eye turns sharply upon the physician, with a sparkle of its accustomed fire; "eh, Guénaud – who knows?" Guénaud bows, but is silent. "You may be mistaken. Non importa, I must think of my soul. It is indeed a great trial – a sore trial – a man of my age, too, with so many years to live! and such a collection! You know my collection, Guénaud?"

"Yes, your eminence," answers he, bowing.

"The finest in Europe," sighs Mazarin, "and not yet finished; fresh works coming in daily. A great trial – but I must think of my soul. Go now, Guénaud; come again to-morrow. Perhaps – who knows? – you may see some change, some improvement – who knows?"

Guénaud shakes his head silently, and withdraws.

Meanwhile the Queen-mother, Anne of Austria, informed of Mazarin's desperate condition, hastens to visit him. She is attended by her gossiping ladies, eager to catch every word, and with nods and winks, and sighs of affected sympathy – to comment on her sorrowful expression.

Her Majesty is pale and sad; tears gather in her eyes as she advances towards the bed on which Mazarin lies, and she asks with a timid yet tender voice after his health. He replies that he is very ill, and repeats to her what Guénaud had told him. If I were to add that he displayed to the Queen and her ladies one of his bare legs, to afford ocular demonstration of his reduced condition, I fear I should be accused of imitating the mauvaise langue of Madame de Noailles. But he really did so, to the great grief of Anne of Austria, and to the utter discomfiture and horror of her less sympathising ladies in waiting, who rapidly retreat into the recesses of the windows, or behind the draperies of the apartment, to escape so unpleasant a spectacle.

"Look!" exclaims Mazarin, thrusting forward his leg – "look, Madame, at the deplorable condition to which I am reduced by my incessant anxiety for the welfare of France! And to leave my pictures too, – my statues. Ah, Madame, it is a bitter trial!"

Soon after this extraordinary interview, and when all the world believed Mazarin to be dead or dying, the cunning Italian, determined once more to dupe the whole Court, and deceitful in his death as he had been in his life, gave orders that his convalescence should be announced. He caused himself to be painted white and red, dressed in his Cardinal's purple robes, and placed in a sedan chair with all the glasses down. Thus he was wheeled along the broad terraces of his garden, taking care to be well observed by the vast crowd collected by the news of his recovery. For a moment he presented the appearance of health and vigour. But the effort he had forced himself to make, in order to enact this ghastly comedy, was too much for his remaining strength. He swooned in his sedan chair, and was brought back and placed on his bed, never to rise again. Thus died as he had lived, Cardinal Mazarin, a dissembler and a hypocrite; but a great minister. Not cruel or bloodthirsty, like Richelieu, though equally unscrupulous, Mazarin gained the end he had in view by patience, cunning, and intrigue. At his death he left France, already exhausted by the wars of the Fronde, completely subdued; and in such a state of abject submission to the throne, as paved the way to the extravagance and oppression of Louis XIV's reign.

CHAPTER XVI.

LOUISE DE LA VALLIÈRE

THE young King Louis XIV. was active, vigorous, and graceful. He excelled in outward accomplishments, in riding, dancing, and fencing; but intellectually he was both idle and ignorant. His education had been purposely neglected by Cardinal Mazarin; and he was so fully aware of it, that he carefully avoided displaying his ignorance by a too facile or rapid address. Even in youth he was grave and ceremonious; in later years he became pompous and overbearing. On the other hand, the refinement of his mother's nature was reproduced in the son of her love. He was brought up by her side in a circle as elegant and refined as the Hôtel de Rambouillet in its palmiest days. He never forgot the lesson he then learnt, that the outward proprieties of life must be studiously observed, whatever freedoms may be permitted in private. He desired all his life to be considered pious, just, and moral. He failed in each, for his passions were strong and his temper was imperious. The vicissitudes of his early life during the civil wars of the Fronde, when he was often obliged to fly at a moment's notice from place to place, gave him, however, a power of assuming calmness and dignity under all circumstances, which he could never have acquired in less eventful times.

Above all sovereigns Louis understood the art of reigning, of appearing to be a great king when he was really but a shallow, vain, irresolute man, extraordinarily accessible to flattery. Yet that a son of Louis XIII. should say with truth, "L'état c'est moi," and dare to drive out the national Parliament solemnly assembled in the legislative chamber, whip in hand, is one of the most striking anomalies in history.

In person Louis resembled his father. He was dark, broad shouldered, and rather short, with regular features and a prominent nose. But he had all the fire of his mother's Spanish eyes, and withal the grandest manners and the most royal presence ever seen. From a boy he was an ardent admirer of the fair. All his life he continued to be secretly ruled by female influence. Indeed, his long reign may be divided into three periods, corresponding with the characteristics of the three women who successively possessed all the love he could spare from himself. He was gentle, humane, and domestic with La Vallière; arrogant, heartless, and warlike with De Montespan; selfish, bigoted, and cruel, with De Maintenon.

His boyish philandering with the handsome nieces of Cardinal Mazarin has been already noticed. What subtle plans developed themselves in the brain of that unscrupulous schemer never can be known; but he could not have arranged matters better to place one of his nieces on the throne of France. Nor to his Italian notions would this have been extraordinary. Mazarin would have argued that a Mancini was as well born as a Medici, whose arms were a pill, and that Martinozzi was as ancient a name as Bourbon.

Anne of Austria looked on with displeasure. Mazarin wore an imperturbable front, a sphinx-look, ready to answer either way, as circumstances might prompt. By the time that Maria Mancini came from Rome, Louis's passions were thoroughly roused. The young lion had tasted blood, and found it pleasant to his palate. Maria was far less beautiful than her sisters, – indeed, that bitter-tongued chronicler, Bussy Rabutin, calls her "ugly, fat, and short, with the air of a soubrette"; but she had the temper of an angel, and seemed to the boyish Louis a soft, plaintive, clinging creature, who appealed to his pity. In reality she had a force of character ten times greater than his own, and the courage of a heroine.

In Maria Mancini, Mazarin made his great move in the matrimonial game. Louis gave signs of a serious attachment. Anne of Austria set a watch upon him. It was needful. Louis had a temperament of fire, Maria was born under an Italian sky. Notwithstanding the watch set Louis found opportunity to promise marriage to Maria. He repeated this promise with protestations and oaths, but, cautious even in his youth, he did not, like his grandfather Henry IV., commit it to writing.

Mazarin, informed by his niece of what had passed, opined that the time to speak had come. He ventured to sound the Queen-mother. He spoke of the charms of genuine attachment, the happiness of domestic life on a throne; he hinted at the Queen's own unhappy career, sacrificed as she had been to a political alliance. He enlarged on the antiquity of the Latin races, specially those of Rome and Sicily, "all of them," he said, "once reigning houses, and poverty," he added, "did not make blue blood red."

The Queen, however subservient to the Cardinal on all other matters, flared out – "If ever my son condescends to marry your niece," cried she, "I will disown him. I will place myself, with his brother, Philip of Orleans, at the head of the nation, and fight against him and you, Cardinal Mazarin."

The Cardinal had many consolations; he was fain to yield. Maria was sent to a convent. Poor Maria – to go to Brouage instead of sitting on a throne! It was very hard. Louis was in despair. When they met to say adieu, he wept.

"What, Sire!" she exclaimed; "you love me – you weep – and we part?" and she turned her liquid eyes upon him with a look of passionate entreaty.

Perhaps the tears in the King's eyes blinded him, or he did not hear her; at all events, he heeded neither her look nor her innuendo, and she went.

Then those marriage bells sounded from over the frontier of which we have spoken. The King espoused the Infanta of Spain, and Maria Mancini became La Principessa Colonna, and lived at Naples.

The Court is at Saint-Germain. Louis XIV. was born there, and until Versailles and Marly were built, he made it his principal residence. In one of the principal saloons, on the first floor, lying midway between the turreted angles of the façade, looking over the plains towards Paris, Louis XIII. had ended his miserable existence, his private band playing a "De Profundis," of his own composition, during his death throes. His morbid nature – reproduced in his descendant Louis XV., who said he loved "the scent of newly made graves" – made him await the approach of death with a sort of grim curiosity. As he lay on his bed, opposite the windows, his dim eyes resting on the wide expanse outstretched below, he called Laporte to him. He was so near his end that he articulated with difficulty. "Remember, my good Laporte," he gasped, "that place, below there, where the road turns under that rise," – and he raised his shrunken finger, and pointed to a particular spot, on the road to Saint-Denis, along which his funeral procession must pass to reach the tombs of his ancestors – "that place there. It has been newly gravelled, Laporte. It is rough, and will shake me. Let the driver go gently over the loose stones. Be sure to tell him I said so."

This was not like his son, Louis XIV., who came to detest Saint-Germain because this very Cathedral of Saint-Denis, where he must be buried, was visible on the horizon line. Such an object did not suit a monarch who desired to be thought immortal.

The Court is at Saint-Germain. It is a cool, delicious evening, after a day of unusual heat. The summer evenings are always charming at Saint-Germain, by reason of the bowery freshness of the adjacent forest, from which cool breezes come rippling through the air, and fan the heated atmosphere. The sombre château is now a mass of deep shadow, save where the setting sun lights up some detail of its outline – an arched window, a rich cornice, a pillared portico, or a pointed tower, which stand out against the western sky with fugitive brightness. The parterre blazes with summer flowers, the perfume of which creeps upwards in the rising dews of evening. The formal gravel walks are bordered by statues and orange-trees; the splashing of many fountains stirs the air. A flock of peacocks strut on the greensward, their long tails catching the last rays of the sunset. The summer birds make delicate music among the shrubberies; and the giant elms, in the outer park, divided from the garden by an open iron railing, bow their rounded heads to the breeze.

When the sun has set, a merry party, consisting of four of the maids of honour, leave the château by a side door. They run swiftly along the terrace, – frightening the peacocks, who drop their tails and fly screeching into the trees, – and ensconce themselves in a trellised arbour, garlanded with honeysuckles and roses, hid in a thicket of flowering shrubs skirting one side of the parterre. Once there, their tongues are let loose like so many cherry-clappers.

It was so nearly dark that the maids of honour did not notice the King as they scudded along the garden, who, attended by the mischief-loving Comte de Lauzun, had also stolen out to enjoy the evening. Louis watched them as they ran, and then, hearing their voices in such eager talk, was seized with an intense desire to know who they were, and what they were saying. He dare not speak, for they would hear him, and perhaps recognise his voice. Signing to his confidant Lauzun to follow him, he softly approached the arbour in which the four girls are hid.

He finds that they are all talking about a fancy ball given the night before by Madame Henriette, Duchesse d'Orléans, his brother's wife; and particularly about a ballet in which he himself had danced. The King and Lauzun, favoured by the increasing darkness of the night, and well entrenched behind the shrubs, lose not a syllable.

The question is, which dancer was the handsomest and the most graceful? Each pretty lady has, of course, her own predilection. One declares for the Marquis d'Alençon, another will not hear of any comparison with M. de Vardes, a third stoutly maintains that the Comte de Guiche was by far the handsomest man there and everywhere else (an opinion which, par parenthèse, Madame herself takes every opportunity of showing she endorses, displaying, moreover, this opinion somewhat too openly, notwithstanding her designs on the heart of the King himself, whom she fancies, and others declare, is, or has been, her admirer). The fourth damsel is silent. Called upon to give her opinion, she speaks. In the sweetest and gentlest of voices she thus expresses herself: —

"I cannot imagine how any one could have been even noticed when the King was present. He is quite fascinating."

"Ah, then, mademoiselle, you declare for the King. What will Madame say to you?"

"No, it is not the King nor the crown he wears that I declare for; it is not his rank that makes him so charming: on the contrary, to me it is rather a defect. If he were not the King I should positively dread him. His position is my best safeguard. However – " And La Vallière drops her head on her bosom and falls into a deep reverie.

On hearing these words the King is strangely affected, he whispers to Lauzun not to mention their adventure; they retire silently as they came, and re-enter the château. The King is in a dilemma. If he could only discover who this fair damsel is who prefers him to all others with such naïveté – who admires him for himself alone, and not for his rank – a preference as flattering as it is rarely the lot of a monarch to discover! All he knows is that it must be one of the maids of honour attached to the service of Madame Henriette, his sister-in-law, and he cannot sleep all night, he is so haunted with the melting tones of her voice, and so anxious to discover to whom it belongs.

In the morning, as soon as etiquette allowed of his appearing, Louis hurries off to the toilette of Madame, whom he finds seated before a mirror of the rarest Dresden china, looped up with lace and ribbons, her face and shoulders covered with her long brown hair.

"Your Majesty honours me with an early visit," says she, colouring with pleasure as he enters. "What plans have you arranged for the hunt to-day? When are we to start?"

Louis, with his usual politeness – shown, be it recorded to his credit, towards any woman, whatever might be her degree – gallantly replies that it is for her to command and for him to obey. But there the conversation drops, and the Duchess observes that he is absent and preoccupied. This both chagrines and disappoints her. Piqued at his want of empressement, she turns from him abruptly and begins conversing with the Comte de Guiche, who with ill-disguised uneasiness had stood aloof watching her warm reception of his Majesty.

Henriette, the royal daughter of the Stuarts and the Bourbons, without being positively handsome, has the air of a great princess. The freshness of her complexion is, however, all that is English about her. Her forehead, high and broad, but too much developed for beauty, gives a certain grandeur to her expression; her eyes are sparkling, but placed too near together. Still her face is intelligent and lively. She is tall, slim, and very graceful. Around her long neck, on which her small head is admirably set, is bound a single string of fine orient pearls, and a mantle and train of turquoise faille fall back from a flounced petticoat of yellow satin.

While Madame Henriette talks with the Comte de Guiche, Louis is at liberty to use his eyes as he chooses, and he hastily surveys the group of lovely girls that stand behind the Princess's chair. One placed a little apart from the rest rivets his attention. Her pale and somewhat melancholy countenance imparts an indescribable air of languor to her appearance, and the graceful tournure of her head and neck are admirable.

"Can this be she?" he asks himself. He hopes – he fears (he was young then, Louis, and not the blasé débauché he afterwards became) – he actually trembles with emotion, suspense, and impatience. But determined to ascertain the truth, and regardless of the furious glances cast at him by Madame, – who evidently neither likes nor understands his wandering looks, directed evidently to her ladies, and his total want of empressement towards herself, – he approaches the fair group and begins conversing with them, certain that if that same soft voice is heard that had never ceased to echo in his ears, he shall at once recognise it. He speaks to Mademoiselle de Saint-Aignan, but his eyes are fixed on the pale face of La Vallière, for she it was whom he so much admired. La Vallière casts down her eyes and blushes.

The King advances towards her and addresses her. He awaits her reply with indescribable anxiety. She trembles, grows still more pale, then blushes crimson, and finally answers in a voice tremulous with timidity; but it was the voice! He has found her. This, then, is the unknown, and she loves him; her own lips confessed it. Delightful! He leaves the apartments of Madame abruptly in speechless ecstasy.

From that day he sees, he lives only for La Vallière. Ever in the apartments of his sister-in-law, it was evident even to her that he did not come to seek her, and her rage knew no bounds. She had hitherto had ample reason to believe that the attachment the King felt for her somewhat exceeded that of a brother. With the spiteful penetration of a jealous woman, she now discovers how often the eyes of Louis are fixed with admiration on the timid, downcast La Vallière. She is not, therefore, long in guessing the object of his preference, and the cause of his frequent visits to her apartments. From this moment she hates poor Louise, and determines, if possible, to ruin her.

The King on his part, unconscious of the storm he was raising about La Vallière, is enchanted not only with herself, but with all he hears of her character. She is beloved by every one; her goodness, sweetness, and sincerity are universally acknowledged, and the account of her various good qualities tend to enhance her merit.

When the Court returns to Saint-Germain (now, can one fancy romance within those dingy walls? – but so it was), Louis is desperately, head and ears over, in love. A party of pleasure is arranged to take place in the forest under a tent formed of boughs, tapestry, and flowers. The ladies invited to this sylvan retreat are habited as shepherdesses and peasants. They form charming groups, like Sèvres china. On their arrival the most delicious music is heard from the recesses of the leafy woods, which as it plays at intervals, now here, now there, among the trees, is the signal for the appearance of various groups of satyrs, fauns, and dryads, who after dancing grotesque figure-dances, and singing verses in honour of the King, disappear, to be quickly replaced by another troupe. These present flowers, and also sing and dance as no dryads or fauns had ever dreamed of in classic bowers, but in a style quite peculiar to the age and taste of le Grand Monarque, who liked even nature itself to appear as artificial and formal as he was himself. This agreeable fête has lasted all day, and the company is about to return, when, conceive the alarm – a violent storm comes on, thunder rolls, the sky is suddenly overcast, and a heavy rain, enough to drench the whole Court to the skin, descends with remorseless violence. How every one scuds hither and thither! The thickest trees are eagerly seized on as a slight protection against the storm. Others hide themselves in the bushes, some penetrate deeper into the cover of the copse wood. Spite of the rain, and the destruction of the dresses, the ladies come to vote it rather an agreeable incident on the whole, when they find their favourite cavaliers beside them, placed, perchance, somewhat nearer than would have been comme il faut in the Court circle. For although the ladies might really at first have been a little terrified, the gentlemen are certainly not likely to be troubled with any nervousness on account of a thunderstorm, and preserve sufficient sang-froid each to select his lady-love in order to protect her from the weather. Thus it chanced that Madame Henriette finds herself under the care of the Comte de Guiche; the fair Mancini, once beloved by the King, now Comtesse de Soissons, is under the protection of her dear De Vardes; and Mademoiselle d'Orléans —la Grande Mademoiselle– is completely happy, and forgets the thunder, rain, and, more wonderful still, her own dignity, at finding herself escorted by Lauzun!