Those were not new reflections, but they had acquired a force which acted directly upon the currents established by Mazarin; and just at the moment when the people awoke to their meaning, the Queen's clairvoyant counsellor removed the last scruple from the public conscience by voluntarily returning to his exile (19th August).
Then came the general break-up. Every man of any importance in Paris raised his voice; deputies were sent to ask the King to recall Mazarin. Retz, whose manners had accommodated themselves to his hat, was among the first to demand the recall, and his demand was echoed by his clergy. Monsieur (and that was a true sign) judged that the time had come to part company with his associates; he engaged in private negotiations with the Court. The soldiers vanished; Condé, feeling that his cause was lost, essayed to make peace, and failed, as he always failed, because no one could accept such terms as he offered. As his situation was critical, his friends shunned him. Mademoiselle still clung to him, and she was loved and honoured; but, as it was known that she lacked judgment, her fondness for him did not prove anything in his favour.
Mademoiselle was convinced of her own ability; she knew that she was a great general. She formed insensate projects. One of her plans was to raise, to equip, and to maintain an army at her own expense: "The Army of Mademoiselle." Such an army would naturally conquer difficulties. Some foreign Power would surrender a strong city,—or even two strong cities; and then the King of France would recognise his true interests, and capitulate to the tall cousin who had twice saved Condé and taken Orleans single-handed,—and at last, after all her trials, having done her whole duty, she would drain the last drops of her bitter draught, and find the closed crown lying at the bottom of her cup,—unless—. There was a very powerful alternative. Mademoiselle's mind vacillated between the King of France and the great French hero: M. le Prince de Condé. An alliance with Condé was among the possibilities. The physical condition of Condé's wife permitted a hope,—twice within a period of two weeks she had been at death's door. On the last occasion Paris had been informed of her condition in the evening.
I was at Renard's Garden [wrote Mademoiselle]. M. le Prince was with me. We strolled twice through the alleys without speaking one word. I thought that probably he was thinking that every one was watching him,—and I believed that I was thinking of just what he was thinking,—so we were both very much embarrassed.
That night the courtiers paid court to Mademoiselle,—they spoke freely of the re-marriage of M. le Prince,—in short, they did everything but congratulate her in plain words.
Though Mademoiselle knew that her fairy tales were false, she half believed in them. In her heart she felt that her heroinate—if I may use the term—was drawing to a close, and she desired to enjoy all that remained to her to the full. In her ardour she made a spectacle of herself. She appeared with her troops before Paris, playing with her army as a child plays with leaden soldiers. She loved to listen to the drums and trumpets, and to look upon the brilliant uniforms. One night M. le Prince invited her to dine at his headquarters, and she arrived, followed by her staff. She never forgot that evening. "The dirtiest man in the world" had had his hair and his beard trimmed, and put on white linen in her honour,—"which made great talk." Condé and his staff drank to her health kneeling, while the trumpets blared and the cannon thundered. She reviewed the army and pressed forward as far as the line of the royal pickets. Of that occasion she said: "I spoke to the royal troops some time, then I urged my horse forward, for I had great longing to enter the camp of the enemy. M. le Prince dashed on ahead of me, seized my horse's bridle, and turned me back."
That evening she published the orders of the day, did anything and everything devolving upon any and all of the officers on duty, and proved by look and by word that she was a true soldier. When it was all over she rode back to Paris in the moonlight, followed by her staff and escorted by Condé and his general officers. The evening ended with a gay supper at the Tuileries.
That visit went to her head, and a few days later she besought her father to hang the chiefs of the Reaction. "Monsieur lacked vigour." That was the construction which Mademoiselle put upon his refusal to hang her enemies, and it was well for her that he did, for the hour of the accounting was at hand. The 13th October she was intoxicated for the last time with the sound of clanking arms and the glitter of uniforms. M. le Prince with all his army visited her to say "farewell." The Prince was to lead his army to the East; no one knew to what fortune. She wrote mournfully:
It was so beautiful to see the great alley of the Tuileries full of people all finely dressed! M. le Prince wore a very handsome habit of the colour of iron, of gold, of silver, and of black over grey, and a blue scarf, which he wore as the Germans wear theirs,—under a close-coat, which was not buttoned. I felt great regret to see them go, and I avow that I wept when I bade them adieu ... it was so lonely ... it was so strange ... not to see them any more ... it hurt me so! And all the rumours gave as reason for thinking that the King was coming and that we all should be turned out.
The princes left Paris on Sunday. The following Saturday, in the morning, when Mademoiselle was in the hands of her hair-dresser, she received a letter from the King notifying her that, as he should arrive in Paris to remain permanently, and as he had no palace but the Tuileries in which to lodge his brother, he should require her to vacate the Tuileries before noon on the day following. Mademoiselle was literally turned out of the house, and on notice so short that anything like orderly retreat was impossible. Borne down by the weight of her chagrin, she sought shelter where best she could. We are told that she "hid her face at the house of one of her friends," and it is probable that to say that she hid her face but feebly expresses the bitterness of the grief with which she turned from the only home that she had ever known, in which she had lived with her princely retinue, and which she had thought to leave only to enter the King's palace as Queen of France. She was brave; she talked proudly of her power to overthrow royalty, and to carry revolution to the gates of the Palais Royal, and until the people saw their young King her boasts were not vain; but her better nature triumphed, and in the end her wrath was drowned in tears. The day after she received notice to vacate the palace she was informed that her father had been exiled. She went to the Luxembourg to condole with him. On the way she saw the King. She passed him unseen by him. He had grown tall; he saluted the people gracefully and with the air of a king; he was a bright, handsome boy. The people applauded him with frenzy.