The marriage between Charlotte de Montmorenci and the Prince de Condé was, as had been anticipated, a failure. Condé, devoured by jealousy, shut up his wife at Chantilly, or at the still more remote Château of Muret. The petted beauty, accustomed to the incense of a Court and the avowed admiration of an infatuated sovereign, scolded and wept, but in vain. The more bitterly they quarrelled, the more deep and dangerous became Condé’s enmity to Henry. Disloyalty was the tradition of his race, rebellious practices with Spain the habit of his house. We have seen how a Condé was ready to usurp the throne under pretence of a Regency, during the conflict with the Huguenots at Amboise. His son, “the great Condé,” is by-and-by to head the standard of revolt, and at the head of Spanish troops to bring France to the brink of ruin. Avarice had led him to accept the hand of Charlotte de Montmorenci—avarice and poverty—and he had counted upon constant espionage and absence from Court as sufficient precautions. But he was young: he had yet to learn the wilfulness of his wife and the audacity of the King. As he gradually discovered that the Princess was neither to be soothed nor coerced, his rage knew no bounds. Sully, seriously alarmed at the rumours that reached him respecting the Prince’s language, requested a visit from him at the Arsenal.
Sully is seated in a sombre closet—looking towards the towers of Notre-Dame—at a table covered with papers. Condé is tall, thin, and slightly made. He is singularly ill-favoured, with dark hair and swarthy skin, a nose quite out of proportion with the rest of his face, and a sinister expression in his eyes. On entering he cannot conceal his uneasiness.
“Be seated, monseigneur,” says Sully, scanning him from under his heavy eyebrows. “I have no time to spare—therefore I must use plain words. You speak of the King my master in terms that do you little credit. You are playing the devil, Prince. The King’s patience is well-nigh exhausted. I am commanded to keep back the payment of the pension you receive to mark his Majesty’s displeasure. If this has no effect upon you, other means must be tried.”
While Sully speaks, Condé sits opposite to him unmoved, save that his dark face hardens, and he fixes his sullen eyes steadfastly upon Sully.
“If I am what you say,” replies he at last doggedly, “if I speak ill of his Majesty, am I not justified? He is determined to ruin me. He persecutes me because I choose to keep my wife in the country. It is my desire to leave France—then I shall no longer give his Majesty offence.”
“Impossible, monseigneur! As a Prince of the blood your place is at Court, beside the Sovereign.”
“What! have I not liberty even to visit my own sister, the Princess of Orange, at Breda, in company with the Princess, my wife? That can be no affront to his Majesty. Surely, Monsieur de Sully, you cannot advise the King to refuse so reasonable a request?”
“I shall advise him to refuse it, monseigneur, nevertheless. Persons of your rank cannot leave the kingdom—the very act is treason.”
Condé casts up his eyes, and his hands—
“Was ever a man so ill used? My personal liberty denied me! My very allowance stopped!”