MADEMOISELLE DE MONTPENSIER.
How shall we tell in a few words the story of one whose career extended over sixty-six years? Our heroine's name calls up a picture of the most brilliant period in French history. A thousand images arise of pageantry, of genuine magnificence, of jewelled and gilded wretchedness. Life seemed like a great magic lantern exhibited for her private amusement; scene after scene passed before her eyes with a pomp unknown in these days of tinsel splendor; but most welcome of all, ever returning, never palling, was the slide that presented to her view La Grande Mademoiselle, the contemplated bride of half the sovereigns in Europe.
Anne Marie Louise d'Orléans was born in the palace of the Louvre, May 29th, 1627. Fairies met her on the threshold of the world and endowed her with all earthly goods—boundless wealth, a cheerful temper, keen wit, excellent health, and a fair share of beauty. Was it a kindly or a spiteful fairy who crowned these gifts with a vanity that nothing could undermine or overthrow? This self-love afforded the only unfailing enjoyment of her long life; but as it made her throw aside as unworthy of her every scheme of happiness suited to her rank, and carve out a destiny for herself in defiance of all authority, the fairies must decide the question, not we.
"The misfortunes of my house," she says, "began soon after my birth, for it was followed by the death of my mother, which greatly diminished the good fortune that the rank I hold would have led me to expect. The great wealth which my mother left, and of which I am sole heiress, might well, in the opinion of most people have consoled me for losing her. But to me, who feel now of what advantage her superintendence of my education would have been to me, and her credit in my establishment, added to her tenderness, it seems impossible sufficiently to regret her death."
This passage from her "Mémoires" exhibits several of Mademoiselle's peculiarities: a certain blunt, abrupt mode of expressing her exact meaning, an egotism that makes her lose or gain a test of the importance of events, and a right-minded honesty which saved her from the worst errors of her time.
No unmarried daughter of France had ever enjoyed so magnificent an establishment as was now accorded to the heiress of the house of Montpensier. The Tuileries, where she lodged, being connected by a gallery with the Louvre, the little motherless child was under the supervision of Louis XIII. and Anne of Austria, as well as of Marie de Medicis, who expended more tenderness upon this grand-daughter than she had ever on her own children. Mademoiselle regarded her royal grandmother with great partiality. She used to say when the Duchess of Guise was quoted: "She is only a distant grandmother, she is not queen."
Marie de Medicis left France in disgrace in 1633, followed by Monsieur, whose career was a series of petty intrigues, from which he invariably emerged unscathed, leaving his accomplices to bear the consequences of their folly. Very different was the spirit of his daughter. At six years old she was taken to see the degradation of Duc d'Elbôeuf and Marquis de [{361}] la Vienville from the order. On being told that their disgrace was owing to devotion to her father, she wept bitterly, and wished to retire, saying that she could not with propriety witness the ceremony. Ten years later Monsieur supped with her, enlivened by the music of the twenty-four royal violins. She writes: "He was as gay as if MM. de Cinq Mars and de Thou had not been left behind on the road. I confess I could not look at him without thinking of them, and amid my own joy the sight of his contentment pained me." Is not a certain reverence due to this generous daughter of a mean-spirited intriguer, and to one who, with untrammelled liberty, remained virtuous in the court of Louis XIV.? That her unspotted character was not the result of coldness, is proved by her foolish devotion to Lauzun. If pride was her safeguard, at least some human praise should be given to so high an estimate of royal greatness.
The king and queen were untiring in tender attentions to Mademoiselle. She writes: "I was so accustomed to their caresses, that I called the king petit papa, and the queen petit mama, really believing her to be so, because I had never seen my own mother." After enumerating the various little girls of quality who came to play with her, she adds: "I was never so occupied with any game as to be inattentive if a reconciliation with Monsieur was mentioned. Cardinal Richelieu, who was prime minister and master of affairs, was determined to control this matter; and with proposals so degrading to Monsieur that I could not listen to them without despair. He said that to make Monsieur's peace with the king, his engagement to Princess Marguerite de Lorraine must be broken, that he might marry Mademoiselle de Combalet, the cardinal's niece, now Madame d'Aiguillon. I could not help crying when it was mentioned to me, and in my anger sang, in revenge, all the songs I knew against the cardinal and his niece. It even redoubled my friendship for Princess Marguerite, and made me talk of her incessantly."
Gaston d'Orleans returned to France October 8th, 1634, and his daughter went to Limours to receive him. Wishing to test her filial memory, for he had left her at the age of four or five years, he appeared before her without the cordon bleu which distinguished him from the members of his suite. "Which of these gentlemen is Monsieur?" she was asked, and without hesitation sprung to her father's arms; a proof of fidelity which touched him deeply, that being of all qualities the one most likely to excite his surprise. Nothing was spared for her amusement, even to the gratification of her desire to dance in a ballet. A band of little girls of high rank was composed, with a selection of lords of corresponding stature. The magnificent dresses and appointments satisfied even Mademoiselle's ambition. In one figure birds were introduced in cages, and set free in the dancing room. One unlucky songster became entangled in the dress trimmings of Mademoiselle de Brézé, Cardinal Richelieu's niece, who began to cry and scream so vehemently as to introduce a new element of amusement among the assembly. The accident recalls a similar one which occurred at the time of this lady's marriage with the Duc d'Enghien, afterward the great Condé. There was a ball afterward, where Mademoiselle de Brézé, who was very small, fell down while dancing a courante, because, in order to make her look tall, they had put such high-heeled shoes upon her feet that she could not walk. Clearly her sphere of success was not destined to be the ball-room. Poor little soul! she played doll for more than two years after her marriage, and was sent to a Carmelite convent to learn to read and write during her husband's absence in Roussillon with the king.
Mademoiselle gives a graphic account of a journey which she took in 1637. The events recalled, with the [{362}] emotions they excited in her at the time, show an acuteness of perception far beyond that of most children of ten years old. Her sentiments are too virtuous not to demand a brief notice. "Arrived at Champigny, I went first to the Holy Chapel, as a place to which the memory of my predecessors, who had built and founded it, seemed to summon me, that I might pray to God for the repose of their souls." A little later we hear of her at the Convent of Fontevrault. The abbess was a natural daughter of Henri IV., and the nuns lavished every attention upon their guest, delighting to honor her with the title of "Madame's niece." Their devotion bored our princess greatly, and would have made her ill but for a grain of amusement to be derived from the simplicity of the poor ladies. But fortune, Mademoiselle's unfailing friend, soon relieved her from this monotony. Two ladies-in-waiting, Beaumont and Saint-Louis, instead of going into the church, explored the convent court-yards. Terrible cries attracted their notice, and were found to proceed from a poor maniac, confined in a dungeon, according to the ill-judged practice of those days. After amusing themselves with her extravagances, they went to find their little mistress, that she might share the enjoyment. "I broke off a conversation with the abbess and betook myself in all haste to the dungeon, which I did not leave until supper-time. The table was wretched, and for fear of suffering the same treatment the next day, I begged my aunt to let my officers prepare my meals elsewhere. She made use of them after that day, so that we fared better during the rest of our visit. Madame de Fontevrault treated me the next day to a second maniac. As there was not a third, ennui seized upon me, and I went away in spite of my aunt's entreaties." And this was the child who, at five years old, wept over the degradation of two of her father's followers. Through life, her best impulses seem to have had root rather in a sense of her own dignity than in compassion for others.
More easily understood is her enjoyment of the royal hunts, during the days of Louis XIII.'s attachment to the virtuous Madame de Hautefort. "We were all dressed in colors, mounted upon hackneys richly comparisoned, and each lady protected from the sun's rays by a hat covered with plumes. The chase led past several handsome houses, where grand collations were prepared for us, and on our return the king sat in my coach between Madame de Hautefort and me. When in a good humor, he entertained us very pleasantly with many topics. At such times he allowed us to speak freely of Cardinal Richelieu, and proved himself not displeased by joining in the conversation."
His eminence was destined to fall more deeply than ever into disgrace with Mademoiselle in 1638. The dauphin was born at the château of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, September 5th of that year; and his cousin, who, like any other little girl, enjoyed being in the royal nursery, used to call him "her little husband." This amused the king exceedingly, but Cardinal Richelieu viewed the matter more seriously. Mademoiselle was sent home to Paris. On the way, she was taken to Ruel to see the minister, and there received a grave reprimand for the indiscretion of her language. "He said I was too old to use such terms; that it was unbecoming in me to speak thus. He said so seriously to me things that might have been addressed to a reasonable person, that, without answering a word, I began to cry; to comfort me, he gave me a collation. None the less did I go away very angry at his words."
If this rebuke had made a deeper impression upon Louise de Bourbon, her biographer's task would be a more grateful one. The naïveté with which she reveals all her matrimonial castles in the air would be incomprehensible if these schemes had not been purely ambitious; as free [{363}] from sentiment as a military stratagem or a commercial speculation.
At fifteen Mademoiselle met with a great loss in the death of her excellent gouvernante, the Marchioness of Saint-Georges. She speaks of this trial with more tenderness and less egotism than one might have anticipated. "I learned, on awaking in the morning, how ill she was, and rose in haste that I might go to her and show by various attentions my gratitude for her noble performance of her duties toward me ever since I came into the world. I arrived while they were applying every possible remedy to revive her, in which they succeeded after repeated efforts. The viaticum and extreme unction were brought, and she received them with every evidence of a truly Christian soul. She responded with admirable devotion to each prayer: no subject of surprise to those who knew bow piously she had lived. This over, she called her children to her, that she might bless them, and asked permission to give me, also, her benediction, saying that the honor she had enjoyed of being with me from my birth made her venture to take the liberty. I felt a tenderness for her corresponding to all that she had shown toward me in the care of my education. I knelt beside her bed, with eyes bathed in tears; I received her sad farewell and kissed her. I was so touched by the thought of losing her, and by the infinite number of good things she had said to me, that I did not wish to leave the room until her death. She begged that I might be taken away, and her children too; she was too much agitated by our cries and tears, and testified that I alone was the subject of any regrets the was capable of feeling. I had hardly returned to my own room when the agony began, and she died in fifteen minutes."
Mademoiselle retired to the Carmelite convent of Saint Denis, until Monsieur should select another governess. She requested that the place might be given either to Mademoiselle de Fieique or Mademoiselle de Tillières (both "persons of quality, merit, and virtue, and relations of her own"), hoping earnestly that the choice might fall upon Mademoiselle de Tillières. Her wishes were thwarted, and the Countess de Fiesque entered upon the task with Spartan firmness. An illness of six months' duration vanished miraculously when the news of her appointment was announced, we are told with sarcastic emphasis.
Whether governess or pupil suffered most in this connection, it would be hard to say. Mademoiselle de Fiesque had an aggravating system of petty supervision, and Mademoiselle a fixed determination to elude it. On one occasion when our princess had been shut up in her room by the tyrant's orders, she managed to escape, stole the key of Mademoiselle de Fiesque's private apartment, and locked her in. "She was hours in uneasiness before a locksmith could be found; and her discomfort was all the greater because I had shut up her grandson in another room, and he screamed as if I had maltreated him."
But we should soon tire of these reminiscences, did they not bring upon the stage personages more important than Mademoiselle herself—hard as it would have been for her to think so.
In 1643 we find the dramatis personae much changed and extended. Louis XIII. has passed away, making so good an end, that we wonder at the grace of God to see how noble a death may close an insignificant career. Richelieu has been succeeded in Mademoiselle's ill graces by Cardinal Mazarin. Louis XIV. is a precocious, ignorant child of nine years old. The cabal of the Importantes has arisen and declined, and two seditions in Paris, founded upon slight provocation, have proved the populace ripe for the Fronde. Henrietta Maria and her children are refugees at the French court, and Mademoiselle, with her enormous possessions, is considered an eligible match for the Prince of Wales. As Charles Stuart in the character of an unsuccessful suitor is a novel topic, no [{364}] apology is needed for introducing at some length the history of his courtship.
The court was at Fontainebleau when his royal highness arrived in France; and their majesties went to meet him in the forest. His mother presented him first to the king and then to the queen, who kissed him, after which he bowed to the Princess of Condé, and to his cousin. "He was only sixteen or seventeen years old; quite tall for his age, with a fine head, black hair, brown complexion, and quite a good figure." One unpardonable sin he had in Mademoiselle's eyes; that, not speaking French in the least, he could not shine in society. Clever talk she enjoyed keenly even in childhood, Monsieur's brilliant conversation had fascinated her.
The Prince of Wales worked diligently to produce an impression upon his cousin's flinty heart, which (shall we confess it?) was wasting itself away in an unrequited attachment for the imperial throne. Many a suitable match did Mademoiselle reject, because the untimely death of two empresses kept her in a fever of hope and expectation. In vain was it represented that the emperor was old enough to be her father; that she would be happier in England or Savoy. She replied disinterestedly that "she wished the emperor, . . . that he was not a young and gallant man; which proved that in good truth she thought more of the establishment than of the person." In vain did Charles Stuart follow her about bareheaded, ministering mutely to her love of importance. In vain did he hold the flambeau this side and that, while the Queen of England dressed her for Mademoiselle de Choisy's ball. His petite oré, as they called the dainty appointments of a gentleman's dress in those days, were red, black, and white, because Mademoiselle's plume and the ribbons fastening her jewels were red, black, and white. He made himself torchbearer again while she arranged her dress before entering the ball-room; followed her every step, lingered about her hotel until the door closed behind her: all in vain, because at nineteen our heroine had the discretion to prefer a middle-aged emperor, firmly seated on his throne, to an exiled prince of seventeen.
His gallantry was so openly exhibited as to excite much remark. It lasted all winter, appearing in full force at a celebrated entertainment given at the Palais Royal toward the close of the season. Anne of Austria herself arrayed her niece upon this location, and three whole days were devoted to preparing her costume. The dress was covered with diamonds, and red, black, and white tufts; and she wore all the crown jewels of France, with the few that still belonged to the Queen of England. "Nothing could have been more magnificent than my dress that day," she assures us; "and there were not wanting those who asserted that my fine presence, fair complexion, and dazzling blonde hair adorned me more than all the jewels that glittered on my person."' Mademoiselle does not exaggerate her charms. Though not strictly handsome, her noble bearing and charming coloring produced all the effect of beauty.
The dancing took place in a large theatre, illuminated with flambeaux, and at one end stood a thrown upon a daïs, which was the scene of Mademoiselle's triumphs. "The king and the Prince of Wales did care to occupy the throne; I remained there alone; and saw at my feet these two princes and all the princesses of the court circle. I was not in the least ill at ease in this position, and those who had flattered me on entering the ballroom found matter the next day for fresh adulation. Every one I had never appeared less constrained than when seated on that throne;" and the imperial hopes being at their height, she adds: "While I stood there with the prince at my feet, my heart as well as my eyes regarded him du haut en bas. . . The thought of the empire occupied my mind so exclusively, that [{365}] I looked upon the Prince of Wales only as an object of pity."
The conclusion of this romance belongs really to the interval between the first and second Fronde, but we insert it here for the sake of convenience, pleading guilty of the anachronism. In 1649 we find Mademoiselle again persecuted to marry her cousin, then Charles II. "L'Abbé de la Rivière said that I was right, but that it must be remembered that there was no other match for me in Europe; that the emperor and King of Spain were married; the King of Hungary was betrothed to the Infanta of Spain; the archduke would never be sovereign of the Low Countries; that I would not hear of any German or Italian sovereign; that In France the king and Monsieur (d'Anjou) were too young to marry; and that M. la Prince (Condé) had been married ten years and his wife was in good health."
A courier was sent to their majesties to announce the King of England's arrival at Péronne, and the count went forward to meet him at Compiègne. Mademoiselle had her hair curled for the occasion, and was bantered by the regent gently upon the pains she had taken to please her suitor. "Those who have had admirers themselves understand such things," replied her royal highness tartly, referring to the foibles of her majesty's youth.
The royal personages met within a league of Compiègne and alighted from the carriages. Charles saluted their majesties, and then Mademoiselle. "I thought him much improved in appearance since he left France. If his wit had seemed to correspond to his person, he might perhaps have pleased me; but when the king questioned him in the carriage concerning the dogs and horses of the Prince of Orange and the hunting in that country he replied in French. The queen spoke to him of his own affairs, and he made no reply; and being questioned several times about grave matters which greatly concerned himself, he declined answering on the plea of not being able to speak our language.
"I confess that from that moment I resolved not to consent to this marriage, having conceived a very poor opinion of a king who at his age could be so ignorant of his affairs. Not that I could not recognize my own blood by the sign, for the Bourbons are beings greatly devoted to trifles and not much to solid matters; perhaps myself as well as the rest, being Bourbon on both sides of the house. Soon after we arrived, dinner was served. He eat no ortolans, and threw himself upon a huge piece of beef and a shoulder of mutton, as if there had been nothing else on the table. His taste did not seem to me very delicate, and I felt ashamed that he should show so much less in this, than he had displayed in thinking of me. After dinner the queen aroused herself and left me with him: he sat there a quarter of an hour without uttering a syllable: I should like to believe that his silence proceeded from respect rather than from absence of passion. I confess frankly that in this interview I wished he would show less (respect). Feeling rather bored, I called M. de Comminges to be third party and make him speak; in which he fortunately succeeded. M. de la Rivière said to me: 'He looked at you all dinner time, and is still looking at you incessantly.' I answered, 'He will look a long time without attracting me if he does not speak.' He replied, 'Ah! you are concealing the charming things he has said to you.' 'Not at all,' said I. 'Come near me when he is devoting himself, and you will see how he sets about it.' The queen arose; I approached him, and, to make him speak, I asked after several persons of his suite whom I had seen; all which he answered, but point de douceurs. The time came for him to go; we all went in a carriage to escort him to the middle of the forest, where we alighted, as we had done on his arrival. He took leave of the king and came to me [{366}] with Germin (Lord Jermyn), saying: 'I believe that M. Germin, who speaks better than I do, has explained to you my wishes and intentions; I am your very obedient servant.' I replied that I was his very obedient servant, Germin made me a great many compliments, and then the king bowed and left me."
After the battle of Worcester, Charles II. reappeared in Paris and made a third trial for his cousin's hand. "I thought him very well made and decidedly more pleasing than before his departure, though his hair was short and his beard long, two things that change people very much. He spoke French very well." All went smoothly for some time: Mademoiselle received from her royal suitor all the douceurs for which she had formerly listened in vain; and frequent assemblies at her rooms made them very intimate. But her will was too vacillating to allow of her coming to any definite decision, and Charles was at length wearied into giving marked evidence of his displeasure. "The first time I saw the queen after my interview with Germin, she showered reproaches upon me. When her son entered (he had always been accustomed to take a seat in my presence), they brought forward a great chair in which he seated himself. I suppose he thought to make me very angry, but I did not care in the least." Indeed, it would have been an ingenious tormentor who had found a vulnerable spot in Mademoiselles vanity.
As Queen of England, Louise de Bourbon would have found room for the legitimate exercise of her best faculties. As an unmarried princess of immense wealth, she became the tool of men who did not scruple to use her courage, magnanimity, and energy for their own ends, and requite her generosity with neglect. Let us follow her adventures in the days of the second Fronde, and see to what exertions a love of bustle and notoriety could urge a princess accustomed to seek her own ease in all things.
The first Fronde took place in 1648, and was directed by the coadjutor archbishop of Paris, Monsieur M. de Retz, who acted under the influence of two motives: a desire to supplant Mazarin, and rule France himself; and an enthusiasm for constitutional liberty. Our space being limited, we will not pause to reconcile these two aspirations. The court left Paris by night for St. Germain. Mademoiselle accompanied the queen, and made herself useful as a medium of communication with the populace of Paris, who loved her for being a native of their city. She describe the royal destitution with graphic frivolity, and is exceedingly merry over this siege, in which the besiegers starved for want of the luxuries they had left behind them in the beleaguered city.
In the second Fronde, which broke out about two years later (1650-1652), the position of affairs is altered. M. de Retz appears in the character of mediator, and Mademoiselle casts her lot with the rebels. The princes of the house of Condé seize the opportunity to avenge insults offered to them by Mazarin, and Gaston d'Orleans joins the Frondeurs—perhaps in order to avoid the trouble of leaving Paris.
Skilful writers have left accounts so voluminous of those troubled times, that they rise before us rather in a series of living pictures than as historical records. That midnight conference in the oratory, between fair, queenly Anne of Austria and the little dark, misshapen coadjutor; Mazarin threatening Condé; and he, with curled lip and reverential mockery, leaving the ministerial presence with the words, "Farewell, Mars!"—the quelled populace, streaming hour after hour through the king's bedchamber, while his mother's beautiful hand holds back the velvet hangings, that each one may look upon the sleeping boy and know that he has not fled from Paris—all is before us as if it [{367}] happened yesterday. The chief actors with their talents and foibles are better known to us than to their contemporaries; and the French nation is today as it was then—ready to be won over by any clever bit of scenic effects.
Mademoiselle and Condé, who had hitherto been sworn foes, came to a formal reconciliation in 1651, and being bound together by their detestation of Mazarin, welcomed the outbreak of the second Fronde. Anne of Austria declined the company of her niece on leaving Paris, and she was thus left to the flattery of those who well understood the right use of her folly and her strength.
The golden moment of her career arrived. Orleans must be secured to the Frondeurs, or Condé, coming from Guyenne, would find the line of the Loire cut and the enemy master of the position. Monsieur was firm upon two points: that he would not leave Paris himself, and that his private troops should occupy the position best fitted to protect him if the royal army should attack Paris. His daughter, who had been longing for an opportunity to distinguish herself, offered to go to Orleans in place of the duke, and on Monday, March 25th, 1652, left Paris amid the benedictions of the people. A contemporary MS. journal says: "About noon Mademoiselle's carriages assembled in the court of the Orleans palace, ready for the campaign; she wore a gray habit covered with gold, to go to Orleans. She left at three o'clock, accompanied by the Duke de Rohan, Madame de Bréanté, Countess de Fiesque, and Madame de Frontenac." Monsieur sneered at the project, and said her chivalry would not be worth much without the common sense of Mesdames de Fiesque and Frontenac—her maréchales de camp, as they were called between jest and earnest.
Upon the plains of Beauce the young amazon appeared before the troops on horseback, and was received with enthusiasm. "From that time," she says, "I began to give my orders;" and a little later at Toury, where she was joyfully welcomed by a crowd of officers: "they declared that a council of war must be held in my presence. . . . That I must accustom myself to listening to matters of business and war; for henceforth nothing would be done except by my orders."
Arrived before Orleans, Mademoiselle found closed gates and small disposition to grant admittance. The unfortunate city government, pressed on one side by Frondeurs and on the other by royalists, asked only leave to remain neutral. The rebel army had been left at some distance from Orleans for fear of alarming its inhabitants, and M. le gouverneur, learning that the attacking party was a lady, sent out a tribute of confectionery, "which seemed to me amusing," remarks Mademoiselle.
At last, tired of waiting upon the governors indecision, her royal highness went out with her ladies for a walk, much against the judgment of her advisers—or ministers, as she called them. The rampart was edged with people, who cried, on seeing her, "Long live the king and princes, and down with Mazarin!" And she answered, "Go to the Hotel de Ville and make them open the gates;" with other exhortations of the same kind, occasionally mingled with threats, "to see if menaces would move them more than friendship."
Now it so happened that before her departure from Paris, M. le Marquis do Vilaine, a noted astrologer, had drawn the princess into Madame's private room, and imparted to her the following prophecy: "All that you shall undertake between Wednesday noon, March 27th, and Friday will succeed; and you shall even at that time accomplish extraordinary things." This prediction was in her pocket, and anxiously as she disclaims all faith in it, we may believe that it encouraged her to make efforts which gave no apparent promise of success. When, toward evening, she stood outside the [{368}] Porte Brulée, did not M. de Vilaine's horoscope rise in her estimation? The river was crossed and the bank ascended by the aid of some chivalrous boatmen, an improvised bridge of boats, and a little more scrambling than would seem consistent with royal dignity. "I climbed like a cat, grasping at brambles and thorns, and springing over hedges without hurting myself in the least. * * Madame de Bréanté, who is the most cowardly creature in the world, began to cry out at me, and at every one who followed my steps; making great sport for me." Outside the gate, a group of bargemen worked under Mademoiselle's inspiriting direction; inside were citizens, urged on by the Count de Gramont, to tear down the planks; while the guards looked on in armed neutrality. When the two middle planks were torn off from the transverse iron bars, Gramont signed to the princess to come forward. "As there was a great deal of rubbish, a footman took me up and passed me through the hole, where no sooner did my head appear than they began to beat the drums. I gave my hand to the captain and said: 'You will be glad to be able to boast that you let me in.' Cries of 'Long live the king and princess, and down with Mazarin!' were redoubled. Two men took me and placed me in a wooden chair. I don't know whether I sat in the chair or on the arms, the rapture of my delight set me so completely beside myself. Every one kissed my hands, and I was ready to die with laughter to find myself in such a position." And so the city was taken, and Mademoiselle earned the title of Maid of Orleans, all in an afternoon's frolic. If she thought to retain command of Paris in a fashion so amusing, the battle of Porte Saint Antoine must have undeceived her.
The heroine was received with rapture on her return to Paris. She was assured by Condé that the wish of his heart was to see her queen of France, and that no treaty should be concluded without especial consideration for her. No one can be more uninteresting than her royal highness when elated by success, we must confess; but an hour of trial was approaching that should develop for the first and last time in her life, truly grand and heroic qualities. Until the 2d of July, 1652, Mademoiselle had given no signs of feminine feeling except by exhibiting those foibles which are popularly supposed to be especially characteristic of women. But on that day, as she hurried through the streets of Paris, carrying hope to every one she met—consoling poor Guitant, shot through the lungs, pausing to speak a word of comfort to the wretched Rochefoucauld, and putting new heart into the great Condé himself, we recognize sympathies worthy of a better development than they ever received. During a pause in the battle M. le Prince came to her in a pitiable condition, covered with dust and blood, his hair tangled and his cuirass dented with blows. Giving is naked sword to an equerry, he flung himself down upon a seat and burst into tears "Forgive my emotion," he exclaimed; "you see a desperate man before you. I have lost all my friends; Nemours, La Rochefoucauld and Clinchamp are mortally wounded."
Mademoiselle was able to assure him that these reports were greatly exaggerated, and Condé, restored to himself, sprang upon a fresh horse and galloped off to his post. The battle was at its height. Paris had simultaneously attacked at the Porte Saint-Denis and the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. Inquiring the whereabouts of Turenne, M. le Prince rushed to the faubourg, knowing that where the marshal commanded there must Paris be most in peril. Soon came the tidings that the barricade of Piepus had been forced. At the head of a hundred musketeers he threw himself upon the barricade, and drove the enemy back in its own dust. Never had the conqueror been greater than on that useless, terrible 2d of July.
The next meeting between Mademoiselle and Condé was full of triumph. They parted, she to betake herself to the towers of the Bastile, he to the belfry of Saint-Antoine. Toward Bagnolet in the valley the princess saw the king's troops gathering for a fresh attack. Having communicated with Condé through a page, she left the Bastile, giving stringent orders that, in case of necessity, its cannon should be turned upon the royal army; and returned to her post near the gate to invigorate the soldiers with wine and brave words.
There was indeed need for encouragement. Frondeurs were falling back in dire extremity—royalists pressing forward, hopeful, and strengthened with reinforcements. The hours of the Fronde seemed numbered—when heights of the Bastile blazed forth a flash of light; the cannon thundered out in quick succession—the royal army paused, reeled, and retreated in amazement. Mademoiselle had saved the day, and "killed her royal husband," as Mazarin expressed it. Henceforth she was to be more than ever an object of distrust to the queen and minister. But though this victory lent a dignity to the last days of the Fronde, there was no principle of stability in the party. Weak policy, quarrels, treachery on their side—opposed to them, Mazarin, whose keen perception told him that temporary withdrawal from the ministry would insured unlimited power in the future; and Turenne, with double the forces of Condé,—nothing was fairly matched except the courage of the two parties.
The Fronde came to an abrupt end, and every one was left to make his own terms. Mademoiselle had shown disinterestedness, courage, and humanity worthy of a better cause. The fruits which she reaped were a notice to leave Tuileries, and the refusal on her cowardly father's part to protect one whom the king had condemned. There appear to have been about eight years and a half enforced banishment from court, which she spent on her numerous estates, amusing herself with writing romances, portraits (then in vogue) and her Mémoires, which she continued until within a few years of her death. M. Sainte-Beuve tells us that the style of her imagination belongs rather to the close of Louis XIII.'s reign, and to the Hôtel Rambouillet, than to the poorer literary period of Louis XIV.
And now, having given a faint delineation of Mademoiselle during her prosperous and fêted youth, and during the days of the Fronde, which we are inclined to regard as the period at which she gave most evidence of kinship with her grandfather, the great Henry; we pass on to a time when fortune ceased to favor her, and the world began to hustle her about, as roughly as it does common mortals. La Grande Mademoiselle, who had hitherto looked upon human griefs and passions as upon a brilliant theatrical spectacle, was destined at last to leave the royal box, and figure on the stage herself for the diversion of her fellow creatures. An amusing afterpiece this exhibition seemed to her contemporaries; but to us, who have not suffered from her airs of superiority, there is a certain pathos in this genuine devotion lavished upon the wrong object at an age when such blindness is simply absurd. That heart of adamant which had looked above kings and princes to covet the imperial crown, fell prostrate in the dust before a colonel of dragoons, a member of the royal household. Alas for pride of race!
Mademoiselle was forty-three years old when the conviction seized her that it would be well to marry, that M. Lauzun was the most attractive person in existence, and that for once it would be pleasant to receive the love of some one worth loving. That M. Lauzun admired her seemed evident, but how to give an opportunity for expression to one whose sense of reverential duty always kept him at a distance?
One day they had an interview in the embrasure of a window, the first of many similar ones, in which she consulted him about her proposed alliance [{370}] with Prince Charles of Lorraine. The tactics of our modest suitor are worthy of all praise. "By his proud bearing he seemed to me like the emperor of the world," writes Mademoiselle, whose circumstantial account must be pressed into few words. "Why should she marry," he reasoned, "since she had already everything that could embellish life? The position of queen or empress was little more exalted than her own, and would be encumbered with burthensome duties. True, in France she could raise some one to her own rank, and unite with him in untiring devotion to the king, who must ever be her first object in life. It was easy to build a castle in the air, but how to find a companion worthy to share it with her, when no such being existed? A woman of forty-three had three resources: a convent, a life of strict retirement apart from court and city, and finally marriage. Marriage would insure liberty to enjoy the world at any age, but it might be at the cost of her happiness." Hints only plunged him into reverential silence. At last the secret was revealed by writing; then comes incredulity met by protestations, and finally amazed conviction. "What! would you marry your cousin's servant? for nothing in the world would make me leave my post. I love the king too well, I am too much attached to my position by inclination, to leave it even for the honor you would confer upon me." And when she assured him that his devotion to the king only endeared him the more to her (for loyalty appears to have been the mainspring of their attachment), he answered: "I am not a prince; a nobleman I am assuredly, but that will not suffice for you;" and she replies, "I am content; you are all that would become the greatest lord in the kingdom, and wealth and dignities are mine to bestow upon you," etc., etc, etc.
The story is well known. Louis XIV., after much hesitation, gave his consent to the marriage. Mademoiselle was to confer great wealth upon Lauzun, together with the sovereignty of Dombes, the duchy of Montpensier, and the county d'Eu; always with the agreement that he should not resign his post at court, but unite with her in exclusive devotion to the king.
The night before the wedding day Mademoiselle was summoned to his majesty's presence, with directions to pass directly to his room through the in garde-robe. '"This precaution not a good omen. Madame de Nogent remained in the carriage. While I was in the garde-robe Rochefort entered and said, 'Wait a moment.' I saw saw that some one was introduced into the king's room whom I was not intended to see. Then he said 'Enter,' and the door was closed behind me. The king was alone, and looked unhappy and agitated. He said, 'I am in despair at what I have to tell you. I am told that the world says I have sacrificed you in order to make Monsieur de Lauzun's fortune. This will injure me in the eyes of foreign powers, and I ought not to allow the affair to proceed. You have good reason to complain of me; beat me if you like, for there is no degree of anger I will not submit to, or do not deserve.' 'Ah!' I exclaimed, 'who do you mean, sire? it is too cruel! but whatever you do to me, I will not fail in the respect due to you. It is to strongly implanted in my heart, and has been too well nourished by Monsieur de Lauzun, who would have given me these feelings if I had not already been actuated by them, for no one can love him without acquiring them,' I threw myself at his feet, saying: 'Sire, it would be kinder to kill me outright than to place me in this position. When I told your majesty of the affair, if you had bade me forgot it. I would have done so, but think how I shall appear in breaking it off now that I have gone so far! What will become of me? Where is Monsieur de Lauzun?' 'Do not be uneasy; nothing will happen to him.' 'Ah! sire, I must fear everything [{371}] for him and for myself, now that our enemies have prevailed over the kindness you felt toward him.'
"He threw himself on his knees when I knelt, and embraced me. We remained thus three-quarters of an hour, his cheek pressed to mine; he wept as bitterly as I did: 'Oh why did you give time for these reflections? Why did you not hasten matters?' 'Alas! sire, who would have doubted your majesty's word? You never failed any one before, and you begin now with me and Monsieur de Lauzun. I shall die, and I shall be glad to die. I never loved anything before in all my life, and I love, and love passionately, the best and noblest man in your kingdom. The joy and delight of my life was in elevating him. I had thought to pass the rest of my days so happily with him, honoring and loving you as much as I do him. You gave him to me, and now you take him away, and it is like tearing out my heart. This shall not make me love you less, but it makes my grief the more cruel that it comes to me from him whom I love best in the world."
Mademoiselle's suffering in this scene was heightened by the fact that a suppressed cough outside the door revealed to her the presence of an unseen witness. She rightly suspected it to be the Prince de Condé, and reproached the king with just indignation for subjecting her to such a humiliation.
His majesty bore her reproaches very patiently, and dismissed her with the assurance that further discussion would not alter his decision. "He embraced me and led me to the door, where I found I don't know whom. I went home as quickly as possible, and there je criai des hauts cris."
Lauzun, sure of his hold upon her royal highness, and fearing to lose ground with the king, yielded with admirable resignation to the royal decree. His favor at court seemed for awhile greater than ever; but suddenly, for reasons never made public, he was disgraced and sent to the Castle of Pignerol. Mademoiselle spent the ten years of his imprisonment in faithful efforts to procure his release, and purchased it finally by an immense donation to the Duke du Maine, a son of Madame de Montespan. It was a success bitterly to be deplored. Any one more odious than Lauzun after his release, it would be difficult to imagine. Peevish, grasping, slovenly, and ungrateful, he hung about Mademoiselle's establishment; using the power which a private marriage had undoubtedly given him with an insolence that turned her love to disgust.
The spirit of a courtier alone remained to recall the Lauzun of former days. When the princess announced to him the death of Marie Thérèse, he cried: "'People deserve to be imprisoned who spread such falsehoods; how dare they say such things of the queen?' . . . At last they showed him the letters, and he had to agree that queens are mortal like other people."
In 1684 Mademoiselle and Lauzun parted in mutual displeasure. She rejected his efforts at conciliation, and the last entry in her Mémoires is the following: "M. de Lauzun was living as usual in obscurity, but exciting notice, and often concerning matters which annoyed me. When I returned from Eu in 1688, my people were dressed in new liveries. One day, when I was walking in the park of——"
"Mademoiselle knew life late," says M. Sainte-Beuve; "but in the end she know it well, and passed through every stage of experience. She felt the slow suffering which wears out love in a heart, the contempt and indignation that crush it, and reached at last that indifference which finds no remedy or consolation except in God. It is a sad day when we find that the being whom we have loved to adorn with every perfection and load with every gift is so poor a thing. She had years to meditate upon this bitter discovery. She died in March, 1693, aged sixty-six years."
Lauzan, with characteristic insolence, appeared at the general in the mourning of a widowed husband. The king sent the Duke of Saint-Aignan to bid him withdraw. "At such a moment I cannot listen to the voice of pride," was the reply; "I am absorbed by my grief, and could wish to see the king more occupied with his own." He remained to the close of the ceremony.
The magnificent obsequies were interrupted by a more serious disturbance. An urn, in which part of the remains were carelessly embalmed, exploded with a tremendous noise, frightening all the assistants. It was said that not even death could come to Mademoiselle without some ludicrous circumstance.
This princess began life with advantages such as fall to the lot of few human beings. What did she leave behind her in the world? A hospital and seminary under the charge of Sisters of Charity; a very fair literary reputation, founded chiefly upon her Mémoires, which, though not elegant in style, are truthful, graphic, and clear; and a character without spot or blemish, in an age when such characters were rare. Her written confessions afford ample material for cutting criticism, but it would be an unkindly task to turn her own artillery upon herself.