There was little in the royal larder, and that little was not equally distributed; the cohorts of the kitchen had made more than one strong personal drive in the King's interest. The wilful head with its floating veil of curls, the pouting mouth and tear-dimmed eyes were the oriflamme of the cooks' pantries. "Monsieur le Cardinal had forty little fishes[132] on his platter! I only had two on mine!" wailed the young monarch, and the cooks' corps rose in a body to defend the "Divine Right."
"Ma foi!" growled the bourgeois, "but he has toupet, that one! he makes himself master of the King's mother, takes the food out of the King's mouth, and sets up his pomade-pots in the King's house!" The people knew that, if they knew nothing of Westphalia; the handsome fop had eclipsed the diplomatist.
The people called Mazarin "the pomade inventor" and "moustache of the paste-pots" (not to cite their grosser expressions). When the mob cried: Vive le Roi! Retz heard echo answer: Mais point de Mazarin! The Queen was like all women deep in love; she wondered why people blamed her.
Her anger embittered the situation, but after making many futile attempts Parliament persuaded her to resume her duties and (the last day of October) the King, the Queen, the Court, and the retinue, followed by loaded vans, passed through the suburbs homeward bound. Before they reached the city they saw that public feeling had changed. The people had lost their respect for the Court. No one cared either for the Queen or for her Minister. The canaille hummed significant songs and cast bold glances at the mature lovers; the courtiers' eyes furtively lingered upon the walls where coarsely worded posters accused the Queen of her delinquencies. Anne of Austria was brave. She entered Paris with cheeks aflame but with head high. She would change all that! Parliament had urged her to return....
Time passed and the general attitude retained its flippancy. At Court all were counting the cost and planning how they could best turn the coming misfortunes of the Crown to their own profit; écus, dignities, offices, benefits of all kinds, would be within the gift of the new administration. The great were prepared for the emergency. Retz had driven his curés over to the opposition. La Rochefoucauld had urged Mme. de Longueville after the clerical sheep and Conti after her. Anne of Austria's patience was at an end; she had no one to advise her; after she had assured herself that the Condés would sustain her, she set out to the Luxembourg. Monsieur was in the agonies of one of the diplomatic attacks to which he was subject; no one knew whether his pains were real or feigned. He was in bed. He had not changed since the days of Richelieu; he was the same light-hearted, nervous, and bold poltroon, but his intellect was keen, he charmed strangers, he was pleasing even to those who knew him best. Though the Queen was used to his arts, she was dazed by the flood of words with which he welcomed her. From tender anxiety for her well-being he passed to the real anxiety of well-defined personal terror. Then, without stopping to take breath, he gave vent to such sentimental emotions that when Anne of Austria told her errand he had neither the face nor the force to refuse her prayer. She begged him to conduct the King out of Paris secretly, and—"By the faith of Monsieur!" he swore that he would do it.
This second flight was fixed for the night between the 5th-6th January. It was agreed that they should retire to Saint Germain, although there was no furniture in the château. Nothing could be sent out this time—the palace was full of spies—the people were on the watch! Let the furniture follow! Fatality must see to that! Mazarin bought two small camp-beds and sent them to Saint Germain; he left to Providence the task of providing for the rest.
The night of the 5th January Anne of Austria went to bed at her habitual hour for retiring. When she was assured that all the people of the palace were asleep she arose and confided her secret to her femme-de-chambre who awakened the servants, whom she could not do without. At three o'clock they took the King and little Monsieur from their beds and dressed them in their warmest garments. The Queen then led the children down an abandoned flight of steps which opened on the garden. It was moonlight and the cold was stinging. The royal family, followed by one femme-de-chambre and a few officers, passed out of the garden by the small door opening into the rue Richelieu. In the street they found two coaches waiting for them. They reached the Cours la Reine, which had been chosen for the general meeting-place, without difficulty; no one had arrived, and they waited. Mazarin had passed the evening at a soirée; at the appointed hour he entered his carriage and drove straight to the Cours la Reine. Monsieur and Condé had been with Mazarin all the evening, but instead of going directly to the Cours they hurried to their homes to prepare their unconscious families. Mme. de Longueville refused to leave her bed; she declared that she would never abandon Paris. Monsieur awakened his wife; she believed that she was dying, and her cries aroused the children; Monsieur had three infant daughters,[133] the eldest was two years and six months old; the youngest had attained the age of two months and fifteen days. The young Lorraines were vociferous, and mother and babes wept together; Gaston sang and whistled, laughed and grimaced. Finally when all the buckles had been adjusted, when the last limp arm had been introduced into its warm sleeve, the four helpless beings, struggling against the efforts of their natural leader, moved painfully through the dark passages of the Luxembourg into the little streets, and across the river. As the murmuring band passed the Tuileries a light struck in Mademoiselle's apartment illumined all the windows. Mademoiselle was rising at her own time! No need of haste for her, no need of secrecy! Her will was the people's law. At sight of the lighted windows the tears of the feeble wife flowed afresh.
Beyond the Tuileries all was confusion. At the last moment the Queen had despatched messengers to summon the courtiers and the courtiers had sent messengers to warn their relatives that the Court was on the march; all had hurried from their homes, and lord and lady were pressing forward toward the Cours la Reine, the gentlemen fastening their garments askew, or wrong side out as they went; the ladies, still in their nightcaps, moving wearily, soothing or upbraiding their weeping children. All wondered what it meant, all asked what the Canaille had done to force the Court to flee.
Mademoiselle was the last to reach the Cours. To quote her own words, she had been "all troubled with joy" when ordered to prepare for flight, because she had believed that her enemies were about to take a step which would force them to look upon the effects of their folly; but the misery of the sudden flitting, the indecent haste, the broken rest, the consciousness of bodily weakness had swallowed up her glee, and she arrived at the Cours in an ugly humour. She ached with cold; she was crowded in the coach; she sought excuses for intimating that the Queen had brought a useless flight upon the Court. The children voiced their woes. Numb with the cold, worn out and querulous, the ladies chided their husbands and the husbands rudely answered. The moon went down upon the wretched exiles; day had not dawned and black night hid the general woe.