But as early as 1629 the storm which was to sweep Montmorency into rebellion and ruin had begun to growl in the south. The governor of Languedoc felt a dangerous sympathy with his province, one of the old independent pays d’États, which saw itself deprived of power and autonomy in the matter of taxation by a centralizing edict. In the view of the provincial Estates, their “most sacred rights” were thus invaded and torn away. And there were not wanting enemies of Richelieu to fan the flame.
At first it seemed as if the Cardinal would yield to the remonstrances of Languedoc. During the winter of 1631-2 Montmorency was able to announce to his Estates that the hated edict would be withdrawn. However, months dragged on in useless argument with the Cardinal’s commissioners, who, in Montmorency’s own view, were merely amusing the Estates while they led them on to a deeper ruin; while his friends whispered that he himself, as well as his province, was on the brink of destruction. Some slight coldness at Court, consequent on a quarrel of his with the Duc de Chevreuse, was made to signify that his political opposition to Richelieu, frank and reasonable as it might be, would bring about sharp and terrible reprisals.
In this temper the proudest noble and most chivalrous man in France read a manifesto published by Gaston d’Orléans in June 1632, in which he summoned the French to rise on behalf of himself and the exiled Queen-mother, not against the King, but against the “tyrant” who had usurped his authority; while at the same time it was proposed to make Languedoc, already known to be disaffected, the scene of the new civil war.
There were circumstances which attached Montmorency to the Queen-mother’s cause. His wife was related to her, and had always been treated by her with the utmost kindness. If he had shown a friendliness to Richelieu which may have justified the Cardinal in being amazed at the present turn of events, it was yet most natural that he should feel resentment at the Queen’s forced exile. Richelieu and many historians following him have thrown the whole blame of the Duke’s rising on Madame de Montmorency and her affection for the Queen. Recent researches have shown this view to be most unfair. Through the spring and early summer of 1632 the Duchess was lying ill of fever and knew little of public events. It was not till the latest moment, too late for any drawing back, that she heard from her husband of Monsieur’s advance with his consent to Languedoc. With useless tears she learned that he, who had fought so loyally for the King, was now arming against him. When the Prince himself visited her on his arrival she said to him: “Sir, if M. de Montmorency could have deferred to the counsel of a woman, he would never have given you entrance into his government.”
The fatal step was taken with the full concurrence of the Estates of Languedoc, in session at Pézénas. D’Elbène, Bishop of Albi, who has been described as Montmorency’s evil genius, induced them formally to disregard the royal edict and to sign a solemn declaration in which they called on the Duke to make their interests his, as they would make his theirs, that all might act together for His Majesty’s service and the good of their country. Thus “the Estates signed their final abdication; and the Duke his death-warrant.”
Monsieur’s ride through France, with a group of wild companions, at the head of two thousand undisciplined horse, was not likely to do his cause good in the country. Clamouring constantly for pay and receiving nothing but fair words and promises, it was to be expected that the soldiers should provide for themselves. All along Monsieur’s route, his biographer tells us, at the earliest news of his approach, people fled from the villages and open country into the towns, which one and all shut their gates. But it was the season of fruit and crops, “so that the army had not much to suffer.” “Nous entrâmes dans la Limagne, qu’il faisoit beau voir en cette saison des fruits, si la licence des gens de guerre ne lui eût un moment fait changer de face.” And the fate of the Limagne—the most fertile district of Auvergne—was a sample of the rest.
Monsieur and his precious army entered Languedoc in the first week of August, two months before the Duc de Montmorency was ready for him. The session of the Estates was only just over; there had been no time to raise money, to collect troops, or to make sure of several strong places whose loyalty to the governor was doubtful. The King had still a powerful party in Languedoc, and the people generally, with a bitter experience, dreaded civil war. Meanwhile, with swift decision, directed from Paris by Richelieu, Marshals de Schomberg and de la Force were advancing from the east and the west, hemming in Languedoc and its unlucky governor.
The armies met at Castelnaudary—spelt by Aubery Castelnau-d’Arry—and the result of the fight was never doubtful. Though Monsieur had had some small successes since entering Languedoc, his friends and officers spoiled all by quarrels among themselves. Puylaurens, the Duc d’Elbeuf, and the Comte de Moret, each claimed the leadership under him, and all refused to give precedence to the Duc de Montmorency. He was bitterly reproached for the unreadiness which was no fault of his; and he, at least, dashed forward in a spirit of reckless despair to the encounter with the Maréchal de Schomberg and the Marquis de Brézé, whose army, though small, was perfectly disciplined, while that of Monsieur fell almost at once into panic and confusion.
Castelnaudary was rather a rout than a battle. Many of the mercenaries fled without striking a blow, and those who died fighting were mostly among the unfortunate “gens de qualité” who had thrown in their lot with Monsieur. Among these victims the most distinguished was young Antoine de Bourbon, Comte de Moret, son of Henry IV. by Jacqueline de Bueil: she long survived as Comtesse de Vardes, a devout and eccentric lady. Many persons believed that her son, who had taken orders and held, with other rich preferments, the Abbey of St. Étienne at Caen, was carried off alive into Italy after Castelnaudary, and ended his days, sixty years later, as a pious hermit in Anjou. The tradition is not without probability.
No such uncertainty hangs round the fate of Henry de Montmorency. He fell wounded in a desperate charge along a hollow lane, made in support of the Comte de Moret, whose men were in full flight before the enemy. The lane was commanded by royal musketeers, who shot down all the Duke’s followers except a few who dashed forward with him into the ranks of the “cardinalistes.” “I have sacrificed myself for cowards!” Henry cried to the officer who took him prisoner—the Comte de Saint-Preuil, himself one day to be condemned by Richelieu.