CHAPTER VI
Death of the Princesse de Condé—Question of the prince’s remarriage—The Maréchale de Saint-André’s bid for his hand—Rumours of a matrimonial alliance with the Guises—Catherine de’ Medici, alarmed at such a prospect, resolves to set Mlle. de Limeuil at liberty—Isabelle joins Condé at Valery—Intense indignation of the Huguenots at the scandalous conduct of the prince—Quarrel between Condé and Coligny—The leaders of the party take counsel together “to find a remedy for so great an evil”—The deputation of Protestant pastors—Condé declines to separate from his mistress, but eventually breaks with her—His marriage with Mlle. de Longueville—Condé persuaded by his wife to demand the return of the presents he has given his mistress—Revenge of Isabelle—Her marriage—Renewal of the civil war—Battle of Saint-Denis—Peace of Longjumeau—Flight of Condé to La Rochelle—Third war of Religion breaks out—Battle of Jarnac—Death of Condé.
Meanwhile, an event had occurred which had occasioned a great stir in both political camps. The gloomy prognostications of the Princesse de Condé’s physicians, which her husband had at first ridiculed, proved only too correct; all through the remainder of the spring and the first weeks of summer the poor lady was gradually becoming weaker, and by the middle of July it was plain that she had but a few days to live. To the last she was full of consideration for the husband who had shown so little consideration for her. “Fearing to distress him too much, if she told him herself that she felt death approaching,” writes her biographer, “the princess charged two grave personages, friends of her family, to go to Condé’s apartments, to acquaint him with what she foresaw must soon happen, and to ask to be allowed to entrust him with her last wishes in an authentic form. ‘Tell the prince’ said she to these two friends, ‘that, since God is pleased so soon to separate our bodies, I trust that at least our souls may continue to be bound inseparably together in the love that we ought to bear to our common Saviour Jesus Christ, who has delivered us so miraculously, in the eyes of all Europe, from so many enemies and dangers. Tell him also that,—to begin my will,—I constitute him the universal heir to the mass of love I have vowed to my children, and I conjure him, in loving them doubly henceforth both for himself and for me, to keep vigil in my place, so that they may be brought up in the fear of God, which I am convinced is the surest estate and patrimony that I can bequeath to them’”[66]
Condé appeared to be profoundly affected. He declared that he had received from the princess a lesson in courage which he should strive to follow out of love for her and her children; adding that the latter would always find him faithful to the last recommendations of their mother. “God, who joined us now divides us, since it pleases Him,” he exclaimed. “Oh! blessed will be the moment when He ordains that we shall be reunited in Heaven in an eternal bond!”
These pious expressions, which, though they may appear so out of place on the lips of the lover of Isabelle de Limeuil, were probably uttered in all sincerity, seem to have greatly comforted the poor princess, who then sent for two notaries and dictated to them her will.
Afterwards, she summoned her chaplain Pérussel, who, it will be remembered, had shared Condé’s captivity after Dreux, and another minister, and conversed with them on spiritual matters. On their departure, Condé returned to her bedside, and spoke to her some affectionate words. “Four things,” replied the dying princess, taking his hands in hers, “render me happy: the first is the assurance of my salvation, the second, the reputation of being a good wife, which, by God’s grace, I have always had; the third, the certainty that you are satisfied with me, because I have always as faithfully served, loved, and honoured you as it was possible for a wife, in this world, to serve, honour, and love her husband; the fourth, my joy that God leaves to my children a father and a grandmother who will bring them up in the fear of God, in accordance with my principal desire.” And, after a moment’s silence, she added: “And now I must finish my course to gain the prize which I see prepared for me at the end of the lists of this laborious career.”
Condé then withdrew, and the princess’s children entered to take farewell of her and receive her last recommendations.
Towards midnight, fearing that she would soon be too weak to make herself understood, she expressed a wish to have a final conversation with her husband. “I am sure,” said she, “that the prince will not mind being awakened for this occasion, and it would not be well to wait until I could no longer declare to him the things that God has put into my heart.”
On the arrival of Condé, every one present withdrew out of hearing, and husband and wife conversed together for nearly an hour.
ÉLÉONORE DE ROYE, PRINCESSE DE CONDÉ
FROM A DRAWING BY AN UNKNOWN ARTIST
The end came at eight o’clock the following morning (23 July, 1564). Condé, who had quite broken down, had retired to his own room, and one of the Huguenot ministers, who had been with the princess in her last moments, came to break the sad news to him. Dissolute as his life had been of late years, his heart was not quite corrupted, and the grief which he experienced was accentuated by remorse for the pain which his infidelities had so often caused the devoted companion who had just been taken from him. Now, probably for the first time, he seemed to realize her worth, and nothing could have been more touching than the terms in which he spoke of her to his weeping children. “Strive, my darling,” said he to his little daughter, “to resemble your mother, that God may help you as He helped her, that every one may esteem you, and that I may love you more and more, as I shall surely do if you are as she was.” Then, laying his hand on the head of the Marquis de Conti, he added: “My son, you are the first pledge of the blessing and favour of marriage which God gave to your mother and myself. See that you always give me joy and consolation, which you will do if you follow in the footsteps of your mother in the way of virtue. Recognize the traces, for fear lest you go astray along the paths of the dangerous labyrinth of this world. Sons are usually like their fathers, but you must strive to copy the virtues of your mother. For you will be told things about your father and his life that you ought not to imitate, though there are other things in him that you must follow. But in your mother ... you will find nothing which is not worthy to be a treasured example, as she was worthy of a place in the foremost ranks of virtuous women.”[67]
Condé’s grief had, for the moment, exalted him, but his impressions were always more violent than lasting, and scandal was soon to be busy again with his name.
Scarcely had the grave closed upon Éléonore de Roye than all kinds of rumours were in circulation as to her probable successor, for no one doubted that a prince in the very prime of manhood and of so “amorous a complexion” would take unto himself a second wife with as little delay as need be.
It was said that the Maréchale de Saint-André was determined to have him; and the death of the little Mlle. de Saint-André, which had occurred at the Convent of Longchamps three weeks before that of Condé’s wife, whereby the little girl’s immense fortune passed to her mother, was freely ascribed to a diabolical crime on the part of the maréchale, in order to facilitate her union with the prospective widower.
There would not appear to have been any foundation for so terrible a charge, though the maréchale, who, besides being desperately enamoured of Condé, was a very ambitious woman, was certainly prepared to move heaven and earth to secure her elevation to the rank of Princess of the Blood. No sooner did she learn that poor Éléonore de Roye’s recovery had been pronounced hopeless than, with the object of establishing claims to the expected vacancy which it would be difficult to ignore, she made the prince a present of the estate and magnificent château of Valery, near Sens, which her luxurious husband had rebuilt and furnished with the most costly magnificence. At the time when it was made, the singularity of this donation was somewhat modified by the fact that the Queen-Mother had withdrawn her objections to the marriage of the Marquis de Conti and Mlle. de Saint-André. But when, after the death of the latter had put an end to this project, the maréchale not only confirmed the gift of Valery, but added to it a considerable part of the fortune left by her daughter, it was no longer possible to disguise the motive of such unexampled generosity; and people said very unkind things, both about the giver and the prince, who had accepted, apparently without a blush, an almost regal present from one of his avowed mistresses.
Other rumours espoused Condé to Catherine de Lorraine, daughter of the late Duc de Guise, or to her widowed mother, Anne d’Este, still very beautiful; while others again united him to Mary, Queen of Scots.
The prince had no intention of gratifying the ambitions of the Maréchale de Saint-André, being of opinion that to become her husband would be to pay altogether too high a price for Valery. But he was not indisposed to a union with the Guises, for, though they had done him much injury in the past, the death of their illustrious head had deprived them of their influence, and he was of too generous a nature to cherish rancour against a fallen foe.
The Guises on their side, hated by the Huguenots, disliked by the Montmorencies, and distrusted by the Queen, were sincerely anxious for a union with Condé. At the end of December 1564, the Cardinal de Lorraine, returning from the Council of Trent, passed through Soissons, to which town the prince had come, on a visit to his sister, Catherine de Bourbon, abbess of the Convent of Notre-Dame. A very cordial interview took place between them, in which his Eminence suggested to Condé a marriage between him and Mary Stuart. The cardinal had already approached his niece on the subject, excusing the inconsistency of a Prince of the Church recommending a heretic as a husband on the ground that the Huguenots were so determined to compass his ruin that the marriage was absolutely necessary for his political salvation. It is true that he had received scant encouragement from that quarter, since the young queen strongly resented the idea that she should sacrifice her own inclinations for his Eminence’s advantage. “Truly I am beholden to my uncle,” she exclaimed, ironically. “So that it be well with him, he careth not what becometh of me.”[68] Nevertheless, the cardinal did not despair of ultimately obtaining her consent.
On leaving Soissons, the Cardinal de Lorraine proceeded to Paris, followed by “fifty arquebusiers and some hundreds of his friends and servants, with arms, pistols, and arquebuses.” On reaching Saint-Denis, he was met by a gentleman of the Maréchal de Montmorency, governor of the Île-de-France and his personal enemy, who warned him that he could not be permitted to enter the city with an armed retinue, since the edicts forbade it. The prelate, however, thought proper to ignore this warning, and, on 8 January, 1565, he and his whole company entered Paris by the Porte Saint-Denis. Near the Church of the Innocents they were met by Montmorency, at the head of a considerable force. The marshal called upon them to lay down their arms; one man refused and was immediately killed; the rest obeyed, and the cardinal, never remarkable for his personal courage, took refuge in the house of a merchant, where he remained until nightfall.[69]
This affair caused a great commotion. The partisans of the Guises assembled at Meudon, under the leadership of the Duc d’Aumale, and assumed a most threatening attitude; the Maréchal de Montmorency summoned his friends to his assistance, and, since he was known to favour the Huguenots, Coligny and a number of Protestant gentlemen hastened to Paris to offer him their services. To the general astonishment, however, Condé took the cardinal’s part and openly blamed Montmorency. “If,” said he, referring to the fracas by the Innocents, “this was intended for a jest, it was too much; if it was in earnest, too little.”
With the object of showing his sympathy with the cardinal in a more practical form, at the end of January, he, in his turn, had the pretension to enter Paris with three hundred horse. On reaching the Bastille, however, he received a message from Montmorency summoning him to retire immediately, which he did, though not without addressing a letter of protest to the King, which was the cause of violent dissensions in the Council, where the Cardinal de Bourbon took the part of his brother, and the Constable energetically defended the action of his son. On a second visit to the capital, which the prince paid a few weeks later, he assured the Bishop of Paris that he would protect the ecclesiastical hierarchy, and that he deplored the affront which had been offered the Cardinal de Lorraine; and when the Parlement complained that, in contravention of the edict, prêches had been held at his house, he answered that he had neither authorized nor attended them.
The conduct of the prince, which seemed to foreshadow a complete change of policy on his part, and to confirm the rumours already in circulation as to a matrimonial alliance with the Guises, naturally gave the greatest umbrage to the Huguenots, and the extreme section of the party, already, as we have seen, very dissatisfied with their leader, vented their annoyance in a stream of lampoons and satires. The Duc d’Aumale, in his “Histoire des Princes de Condé,” stigmatizes the Protestants as “unjust and ungrateful,” and declares that “there is no proof that Condé ever contemplated a union by marriage with the House of Lorraine.” “In any case,” continues the royal historian, “if he did ‘bind himself afresh’ to his former rivals; if he refused to take part in all the quarrels and to share all the passions which were raging around him, it was because he was sincerely desirous to obliterate the traces, and prevent the renewal, of the civil war.”
The Duc d’Aumale could not, however, have been aware, at the time when this was published, of a letter written by Mary Stuart to her aunt the Duchesse d’Arschot, from which it would appear that the project of a marriage between Condé and the beautiful young widow of François II. had not only been very favourably received by the prince, but that he had actually taken some active steps in the matter. “I hear,” writes Mary, “that the Prince de Condé has demanded my hand of my grandmother[70] and of the Cardinal de Lorraine, my uncle, and that he has made the most splendid offers imaginable, both in regard to religion and other matters.”[71]
Whatever offers Condé may have made, they had no effect upon Mary, who was now firmly resolved to marry Darnley, and was, besides, thoroughly disgusted with the unabashed selfishness of the Cardinal de Lorraine. But the Queen of Scotland was not the only card in his Eminence’s hand, and, though a match with the widowed Duchesse de Guise—whose infatuation for the fascinating Duc de Nemours was common knowledge—or with her daughter, a girl of thirteen, was not likely to prove so attractive to Condé, there was still a possibility that it might be arranged, and for months the Protestants were in a state of trepidation.
Their alarm was shared by Catherine de’ Medici, to whom the prospect of so intimate a rapprochement between the Houses of Bourbon and Lorraine was anything but pleasing. Fully sensible though her Majesty was of the importance of detaching the first Prince of the Blood from the Protestant cause, she judged that this advantage would be too dearly purchased by the subordination of the Crown to two ambitious families, which would be the inevitable consequence of their alliance; and she was determined to use every means in her power to avert such a calamity. It was, of course, the King’s prerogative to refuse to sanction a marriage of which he might happen to disapprove, but arbitrary measures seldom commended themselves to Catherine, who always preferred to gain her ends by indirect means, and shift the odium which she would otherwise incur upon the shoulders of her agents. She therefore bethought herself of Isabelle de Limeuil, who had lately been transferred from Vienne to the Château of Tournon. Here, ready to her hand, was a woman, who, as their intercepted correspondence had shown her, had contrived, notwithstanding the infidelities of Condé, to preserve all her power over him—a woman who knew better than any other how to govern that emotional and fickle heart, by associating the most incredible expressions of tenderness with the most exaggerated flatteries. If Isabelle and her prince were brought together again, if matters could be so arranged that the latter should be compelled to offer his mistress the shelter of one of his own residences, was it not probable that, in the joy of this reunion, the question of his second marriage would be relegated, for a time at least, to the background? And was it not probable, too, that the open scandal would provoke remonstrances from his co-religionists which would irritate Condé and widen the breach which existed between him and his party?
Interesting indeed must have been the letters which passed at this time between the captive of Tournon and the enamoured prince, as the result of which Isabelle was not only rescued from her prison, but conducted to her lover at Valery, the château presented to Condé by her rival—a piquant revenge, in good truth, upon the Maréchale de Saint-André for the advantage which she had taken of Isabelle’s enforced absence from the field! Unfortunately, the correspondence has not been preserved, and the only light cast upon the situation is a passage in a despatch from Smith to Cecil, dated 10 April, 1565: “The Prince de Condé has by a certain gentleman stolen Mademoiselle de Lymoel (sic) from Tournon, where she was kept, and has her with him.”[72]
And has her with him! Yes, under the same roof! “Grand Dieu! it was enough to make Calvin rise from his grave!”[73] cried the Huguenot pastors, holding up their hands in righteous horror. “Had the prince taken leave of his senses that he should choose to create a public scandal and make ‘the Religion’ a by-word in the mouths of the forward, at the very moment when Catherine and Philip of Spain were believed to be plotting its destruction? Had not the way of salvation been made sufficiently plain to him? Had not Bèze and Pérussel and l’Espine and Laboissière spread the choicest flowers of their eloquence before him, and in sermons two hours long insisted on the necessity of the leaders of the faithful leading lives that should be beyond reproach. And this was the result! Out upon him for an evil-liver and an apostate!”
The politicians of the party were scarcely less indignant than the divines, and the reappearance of Isabelle upon the scene was the signal for a very pretty quarrel between them and the prince, of which a piquant account is given in an anonymous letter in Italian in the Simancas Collection:
“I have seen a letter of Madame de Chelles,[74] from which she appears to entertain great hopes of friendship between her brother and the cardinal [de Lorraine]. My friend and I think that nothing can be founded upon the words or the acts of so frivolous a man as Condé shows himself to be, who is at present more than ever enamoured of his Limeuil. Paroceli[75] has been here four or five days, and has preached in private to his Huguenots. Languet learned from him that dissension has arisen, on the subject of la Limeuil, between Condé and Châtillon [Coligny], and subsequently between the aforesaid Condé and his followers, in such manner that Châtillon has parted from him, has come to Paris, and has withdrawn, some say to Châtillon, others to an abbey belonging to him, and that Condé’s followers have almost all abandoned him.
“The occasion of this was that a certain letter was written to Condé from Paris, at the close of which was written: ‘The young lady has come.’ Châtillon, who was standing over Condé as he read the letter, saw these words, and, guessing what they meant, said to Condé: ‘I can tell what young lady it is that has come to Paris.’ To which Condé replied in certain words which showed that Châtillon’s speech was not agreeable to him; but the matter did not go any further for the time being.
“After la Limeuil had arrived at the place to which Condé had ordered her to be conducted, and they had been seen together, certain Huguenot gentlemen went and found Condé, and began to admonish him, and, so to speak, to reprove him on the subject of his mistress. Upon which, Condé, supposing that his secret had been revealed to them by Châtillon, and that it was at his instigation that they had come to reprove him, grew angry and said many things against them, designating them spies, and then adding that it was Châtillon who had told them this, and had sent them to talk to him; and with such indignation that he went on to say much evil of Châtillon and his whole House ... accusing them of arrogance, of presumption, and of not only wishing to put themselves on a level with princes, when they were naught but gentlemen of humble rank, but even of daring to insult him; and that it was not in his nature to suffer this any longer. Through these and such-like words, and even worse, it came about that Châtillon separated himself from Condé. The greater part of the Huguenots have done likewise, so that he finds himself now almost alone.”
However, a little reflection sufficed to convince the Huguenot leaders that the discredit which it was bringing upon their Faith was not the most serious aspect of Condé’s infatuation for Isabelle; in other words, that Catherine was at the bottom of the affair, and had deliberately thrown the two together again, “with a view to the prince becoming what his brother had already become by means of la Rouet.” “Suspecting which,” continues the writer of the letter already cited, “the gentlemen of Condé’s party took counsel together to find a remedy for so great an evil, and resolved upon three courses: first, that the ministers should speak out roundly to him, representing the personal danger and disgrace of the affair, and the scandal common to the whole Religion, since he was its chief, and persuade him, if he could not keep continent, to take a wife. The second remedy, if the first did not succeed, was for the principal gentleman of the Religion, acting in common accord, and his own intimate friends, to wait upon him and address to him the same remonstrances, making him understand that, if he did not separate himself from la Limeuil, they would leave him alone; and, in effect, if he declined to do so, they would leave him. The third remedy, in the event of the first two not succeeding, was that la Limeuil should be excommunicated, anathematized, and delivered into the power of Satan.”
In accordance with these resolutions, a deputation selected from the most prominent Huguenot divines waited upon the backsliding prince at Valery and endeavoured to awaken him to a sense of the error of his ways. Condé received his reverend friends courteously enough, but declared that he “could not keep continent and could not take a wife, since it was difficult to find a person of his own rank belonging to the same religion, and impossible to find one of another religion.”
Sadly the ministers withdrew, and the lay deputation advanced to the attack. It met with anything but a cordial reception: indeed, his Highness expressed his opinion of its interference with his private affairs in such exceedingly plain language that it was obliged to beat a precipitate retreat. Whence, we are told, “the Religion found itself in great trouble and knew not what further to do, since it feared to make matters worse by excommunicating la Limeuil, Condé being of a nature so inclined to women that there was great danger lest la Limeuil should have more power over him than the Religion.”
The counsel of the more prudent members of the party was to leave things alone, and to trust to time. It proved a wise decision. Passions of this kind are more frequently nourished than overcome by opposition; while, on the other hand, the greater the facilities for enjoying the society of the enchantress, the more speedily do disillusion and lassitude arrive. After the first rapture of the reunion, Condé began to ask himself whether, after all, he was not acting very unwisely in quarrelling with his personal friends and jeopardizing his political future for the sake of a girl who had been the cause of so much scandal, and who, he had good reason to believe, had not even troubled to remain faithful to him. Isabelle, perceiving that the prince had not the least intention of regularizing their connexion, and mortified by the manner in which her name was being bandied about, began to regard Condé as the author of her misfortunes. Hence arose quarrels, tears, recriminations. Condé reproached Isabelle with her intimacy with Du Fresne and others. Isabelle retorted by accusing the prince of neglecting her for the Maréchale de Saint-André, to whom, in recognition of the gift of Valery, he had felt obliged to pay some fugitive attentions, and did not fail to take advantage of the opportunity which his acceptance of the maréchale’s calculating generosity afforded her for the exercise of her powers of sarcasm. Wit is a dangerous weapon for lovers to play with, and Isabelle’s was sharper than a two-edged sword.
At length, the situation became so unpleasant that Condé determined to put an end to it; and, towards the close of the spring, he broke of his own free will with Isabelle and was reconciled to the Protestants. They, needless to say, received the repentant prodigal with open arms and lost no time in setting to work to procure him a second wife. They found her in Mlle. de Longueville,[76] a young lady who joined to high rank and the profession of the Reformed faith considerable personal attractions, and, in September, Condé set off for Niort to obtain the King’s sanction to his marriage, “leaving the Maréchale de Saint-André dissolved in tears and regrets for having been so foolish as to consume her substance in vain expenses to acquire the quality of the wife of a Prince of the Blood.”
Catherine, though disappointed at the reconciliation between Condé and his party, was greatly relieved that the prospect of an alliance with the Guises had come to nothing; and Charles IX., on her advice, not only expressed his approval of the marriage, but authorized its celebration at the Court, according to the rites of the Protestant religion, where it took place on 5 November 1565.
The new Princesse de Condé was in many ways an estimable young woman, and the marriage, which was to be cut short by the prince’s tragic death three years later, appears to have been a happy one. She had, however, been very strictly brought up and was, moreover, of a decidedly jealous disposition, and she was determined not to permit the souvenirs of her husband to be dragged about France by his former mistresses. No sooner married, than, following the example of the Duchesse d’Étampes when she had supplanted Madame de Châteaubriand in the affections of François I., she imperiously demanded of the prince that he should require Isabelle to restore all the presents that he had made her; and Condé, who was one of those men who are quite incapable of resisting the caprices of the preferred of the moment, was mean enough to obey.
When the messenger sent by the prince informed Isabelle of the object of his visit, she flew into the most violent passion and made so terrible a scene that, had he not happened to be a Huguenot of a particularly inflexible type, he would doubtless have returned to Condé and reported the failure of his mission. As it was, he waited patiently until her fury had expended itself, and then repeated his request. The lady left the room and presently returned with a packet, in which she had placed all the jewels she had received from Condé and a portrait of the prince by a celebrated painter, the first token of his love that he had given her. Sitting down at the table, she placed the portrait before her and decorated it with an enormous pair of horns; and then contemptuously tossed it and the packet of jewels to the astonished messenger. “Take them, my friend,” said she, “and carry them to your master; I send him everything that he gave me. I have neither added nor taken away anything. Tell that beautiful princess, his wife, who has importuned him so much to demand from me what he gave me, that, if a certain nobleman—mentioning him by name—had treated her mother in the same way, and had claimed and taken away all that he had given her, she would be as poor in trinkets and jewels as any demoiselle of the Court. Well, let her make use of the paste and the baubles; I leave them to her.”[77]
It is to be hoped that Condé had the grace to feel ashamed of himself when his messenger returned; but since, in common with the majority of his contemporaries, he possessed a pretty thick skin, we are inclined to doubt whether such a reproof would have occasioned him more than a momentary vexation. Public opinion, we are told, however, judged him very severely, and declared that he had acted most ungenerously “in having despoiled this poor lady, who had honestly earned such presents par la sueur de son corps.”[78]
In one of his despatches, written soon after the rupture between the prince and Isabelle, Sir Thomas Smith announced that “the Prince de Condé had married la Limoel (sic) to a gentleman of his and given them 15,000 livres a year.”[79] The Ambassador had been misinformed, for Isabelle was still single at the time, nor was this project, if it really existed, ever realized. The lady, however, notwithstanding the notoriety of her relations with Condé and the criminal charge which had been brought against her, was not long in finding a husband.
There was at this time in Paris an Italian banker named Scipion Sardini, who, by the favour of Catherine de’ Medici, who appears to have dipped pretty frequently into his purse, had contrived to amass an immense fortune, and “from a little sardine had grown into a big whale.” He had recently acquired the estate and the beautiful château of Chaumont-sur-Loire and the title of baron to go with it, and desired to find a high-born damsel who would be willing to share his prosperity. Since however, high-born damsels were, for the most part, inclined to look askance at a suitor whose origin was shrouded in impenetrable obscurity, he cast his eyes in the direction of Isabelle, who, he judged, could not afford to be so fastidious; and laid his heart, his fortune, and his brand-new title at her feet. She condescended to accept them, and went to live at the sumptuous Hôtel Sardini, situated in the Quartier Saint-Marcel, at the corner of the Rue de la Barre. The union was not an unqualified success, for Isabelle’s misfortunes had soured her temper, and the pretentious parvenu whom she had married had good reason to regret that he had not contented himself with a more amiable, if less aristocratic, consort. A great lady still, despite her lost reputation, she never forgave her husband his lowly origin, and permitted no opportunity to pass of allowing him to see how much she despised him; and, whenever he had been so unfortunate as to displease her, which appears to have happened pretty frequently, she would remind the poor man of the honour which she, a woman of such noble birth, had done him in giving him her hand. To which Sardini would reply, not without reason: “I have done more for you; I have dishonoured myself in order to restore you your honour!” Then Isabelle would hurl at him a perfect volley of invective, until, fearing that it might be followed by missiles of a more substantial kind, he would fly from her presence and take refuge in his own apartments.
These perpetual quarrels, however, did not prevent this ill-assorted couple from having three children: two sons and a daughter, of whom the latter, Madeleine Sardini, is said to have inherited not a little of her mother’s beauty. Unfortunately, she appears to have inherited her quarrelsome disposition as well, as did her brothers, for, after their parents’ death, they went to law over the division of the Sardini fortune and provided the gentlemen of the long robe with some very pretty pickings.
We shall pass briefly over the last three years of Condé’s eventful life.
In September 1567, civil war broke out again. The Protestants, alarmed and exasperated by the refusal of the Government to disband a force of 6000 Swiss mercenaries, which had been raised to protect the eastern frontier from any aggression on the part of the Spanish troops marching from Italy to the Netherlands, and by the rumour that this force was to be used against them, rose in arms. An attempt was made by Condé and Coligny, at the head of a body of cavalry, to seize the person of the King, as he was on his way from Monceaux, where he had intended to pass the autumn, to Paris. But Charles IX. had had time to summon the Swiss to his aid, and, the Huguenots not being in sufficient force to risk an engagement with these valiant mercenaries, who, “lowering their pikes, ran at them like mad dogs, at full speed,” he reached his capital in safety.
Condé followed, and, having been reinforced, occupied Saint-Denis and proceeded, with astonishing daring, to blockade Paris, although his army does not seem to have exceeded 6000 men and he was without a single piece of artillery; while the Constable, with a vastly superior force, lay within the city. Montmorency, however, who always carried caution to excess, was disinclined to take the offensive, and it was not until the Huguenots had committed the mistake of detaching a considerable part of their slender forces, under Andelot and Montgomery, to occupy Poissy and Pontoise that he ventured to offer battle. The royal army was 19,000 strong, that of Condé certainly did not exceed 3000 men; but the prince had no thought of declining an engagement, and ranged his little force in the plain near Saint-Denis. The Catholic attack was repulsed all along the line, and then, while Coligny fell upon the Parisian militia, who, arrayed in all their martial finery—“gilded like chalices,” as a Huguenot historian puts it[80]—formed the left wing of the Royalists, and drove them in headlong rout towards the city, Condé, with the bulk of the Huguenot horse, burst suddenly upon the centre, where the Constable commanded in person. So furious was his charge that the Catholic cavalry were broken and hurled back, and the Constable himself fell mortally wounded. “If the Grand Signior,” exclaimed the Turkish Ambassador, who, from the heights of Montmartre, had witnessed the prince’s onslaught, “if the Grand Signior had only two thousand men like those in white”—the Huguenots wore white surcoats—“to place at the head of each of his armies, in two years the world would be his!”
But a complete victory against such overwhelming odds would have been in the nature of a miracle. The main body of the Catholics was unbroken; the Maréchal de Montmorency, the Constable’s eldest son, assumed the command and rallied the shattered squadrons; and the Huguenots were being hard pressed on all sides, when the failing light came to their assistance and enabled them to fall back in tolerable order on Saint-Denis. The Royalists, disheartened by the fall of their leader, did not attempt to pursue, and, after occupying the field of battle for a few hours, in sign of victory, re-entered Paris.
Condé’s position being no longer tenable, he decided to lead his little army towards Lorraine, to join John Casimir, son of the Elector Palatine, who was advancing to his assistance with a strong force of German mercenaries. After a hazardous march, he crossed the Meuse in safety, and at Pont-à-Mousson effected his junction with the Germans. Having now once more a considerable army at his disposal, he turned again towards Paris, and, at the end of February 1658, laid siege to Chartres. Negotiations for peace had, however, already begun; and a month later (23 March) the Peace of Longjumeau, which reaffirmed the Amboise Edict, put an end to the second war.
It was merely a respite, for the Court had determined on the ruin of the Huguenots, and, at the end of August, orders were issued for the arrest of Condé and Coligny, who were at the former’s château of Noyers, in Burgundy. Warned in time, they succeeded in effecting their escape with their families, traversed the whole breadth of France, and gained the sheltering walls of La Rochelle, where they were joined by Jeanne d’Albret, and her young son, Henri of Navarre.[81]
The third War of Religion began forthwith, and was conducted with pitiless cruelty on both sides. The results of the autumn campaign of 1568 were favourable to the Protestants, who mastered almost all the South and West. But, with the new year, their fortunes changed. In February, Condé and Coligny with the main Huguenot army marched eastwards to meet their German allies, who were advancing from the Rhine. Finding, however, that Tavannes, who directed the Catholics, under the name of the Duc d’Anjou (afterwards Henri III.), had divined this movement and was preparing to oppose it, they turned to the South-West, with the intention of effecting their junction with the Huguenot forces from Quercy. Tavannes, however, outmarched them and barred their way, upon which they decided to turn to the North, seize one of the passages of the Loire, and join hands with the Germans. But Tavannes followed close on their heels, crossed the Charente by a stratagem, and fell upon the rearguard of the Huguenots, under Coligny, near Jarnac (13 March).
On learning that the Admiral was attacked, Condé, who had left Jarnac with the main body of the army that morning, turned back at once, and, after sending orders to the rest of his troops to follow him with all speed, hastened to his assistance, at the head of three hundred horse. “For,” says Le Noue, “he had the heart of a lion, and, whenever he heard that there was fighting, he longed to be in the thick of it.” On the way, he was met by a messenger from Coligny, who had sent to beg him not to make a useless effort, and to retreat. “God forbid,” he replied, “that Louis de Bourbon should turn his back to the enemy!” And he hastened on.
On his arrival on the field, he found Coligny struggling against almost the entire Catholic army, and in danger of being surrounded. An immediate retreat would have been the wisest course, but to this the prince refused to consent, and drawing up the cavalry in a long line, with himself and his little band in the centre, he prepared to charge the dense columns of the enemy. A day or two before, his left arm had been badly crushed by a fall from his horse, and, now, as his helmet was being adjusted, his right leg was broken by a kick from the charger of his brother-in-law, the Comte de la Rochefoucauld. “You see,” said he, mastering the pain, “that mettlesome horses are of more harm than use in an army.”
Those about him urged him to dismount, but he refused to leave the saddle, and, pointing first to his injured limbs and then to his standard, which bore the device: “Pro Christo et patriâ dulce periculum,” he cried: “Nobles of France, behold the moment so long desired! Remember in what plight Louis de Bourbon goes into battle for Christ and country!”[82]
Then, with his three hundred horse, he threw himself on the Catholic cavalry and drove them back in confusion on the “bataille,” which the Duc d’Anjou led in person. But the charges of Coligny on the right, and Montgommery on the left, failed completely, and the prince’s little troop was soon assailed on all sides by overwhelming numbers. Condé’s horse was killed under him, and, impeded by his injuries, he was unable to mount another. His followers gathered around him and fought on heroically, but one by one they were cut down. Among these devoted men, d’Aubigné tells us, was an aged gentleman named La Vergne, who had joined Condé accompanied by twenty-five of his sons, grandsons, and nephews. “He and fifteen of his relatives were left dead on the field, all in a heap.”
Soon Condé found himself almost alone, but, with his back to a tree and kneeling on one knee, he continued to defend himself. His strength, however, was failing fast, and perceiving two Catholic gentlemen, d’Argence and Saint-Jean, to whom he had once been of service, he called out to them, raised the vizor of his helmet, and handed them his gauntlets, in token of surrender. The two gentlemen sprang from their horses, and with several others formed a circle round Condé, promising to protect his life with their own. Scarcely, however, had they done so, when Anjou’s guards passed by, and their captain, “a very brave and honourable gentleman, called Montesquiou,”[83] learning the name of the prisoner, wheeled his horse round, galloped up to the group, and shouting: “Kill! Mordieu! Kill!” drew a pistol from his holster, and shot the prince through the head from behind, killing him instantly.[84]
Thus died—“on the true bed of honour,” as Jeanne d’Albret expresses it—Louis I. de Bourbon, Prince de Condé, a man typical of his age and of his country, alike in his faults and his good qualities. If the former were, as we have seen, many and glaring, the latter were no less conspicuous. “In courage and in courtesy,” writes La Noue, “no one surpassed him. His conversation was eloquent, rather from nature than from cultivation; he was generous and affable towards all; he was an excellent leader in war, yet, at the same time, a lover of peace. In adversity he bore himself even better than in prosperity.”
The battle of Jarnac was little more than a skirmish, for the greater part of the Protestant army had not been engaged at all, and its losses, except among the cavalry, were inconsiderable. The death of Condé, however, created a profound impression. The Catholic chiefs fondly imagined that, with his fall, the Huguenots would cease to be formidable, and their joy, in consequence, was extreme. A solemn Te Deum was chanted at the Court and in every church in France; thanksgiving processions took place at Brussels and Venice, and the captured standards were sent to Rome, to be hung in St. Peter’s as a perpetual memorial.
By the orders of the detestable Anjou, the body of the murdered prince was treated with the most shameful indignity. “The same night that the battle was fought, the Duc d’Anjou, pursuing the enemy, victoriously entered into Jarnac, whither the body of the prince was carried in triumph on the back of a miserable ass, to the infinite joy and diversion of the whole army, which made a joke of this spectacle, though, while he lived, they were terrified at the name of so great a man.”[85] For two whole days it lay exposed to the effects of the air and the vulgar insults of Anjou and his creatures, and was then handed over to Condé’s brother-in-law, the Duc de Longueville, who caused it to be interred in the ancestral vault at Vendôme.[86]