Thus was being undone, link by link, the chain of alliances which Louis XIV. had but lately twisted round Holland. France, in her turn, was finding herself alone, with all Europe against her; scared, and, consequently, active and resolute; the congress of Cologne had broken up; not one of the belligerents desired peace; the Hollanders had just settled the heredity of the stadtholderate in the house of Orange. Louis XIV. saw the danger. “So many enemies,” says he in his Memoires, “obliged me to take care of myself, and think what I must do to maintain the reputation of my arms, the advantage of my dominions, and my personal glory.” It was in Franche-Comte that Louis XIV. went to seek these advantages. The whole province was reduced to submission in the month of June, 1674. Turenne had kept the Rhine against the Imperialists; the marshal alone escaped the tyranny of the king and Louvois, and presumed to conduct the campaign in his own way; when Louis XIV. sent him instructions, he was by this time careful to add, “You will not bind yourself down to what I send you hereby as to my intentions, save when you think that the good of my service will permit you, and you will give me of your news the oftenest you find it possible.” (30th of March, 1674.) Turenne did not always write, and it sometimes happened that he did not obey.
This redounded to his honor in the campaign of 1674. Conde had gained, on the 11th of August, the bloody victory of Seneffe over the Prince of Orange and the allied generals; the four squadrons of the king’s household, posted within range of the fire, had remained for eight hours in order of battle, without any movement but that of closing up as the men fell. Madame de Sevigne, to whom her son, standard-bearer in the dauphin’s gendarmes, had told the story, wrote to M. de Bussy-Rabutin, “But for the Te Deum, and some flags brought to Notre-Dame, we should have thought we had lost the battle.” The Prince of Orange, ever indomitable in his cold courage, had attacked Audenarde on the 15th of September; but he was not in force, and the, approach of Conde had obliged him to raise the siege; to make up, he had taken Grave, spite of the heroic resistance made by the Marquis of Chemilly, who had held out ninety-three days. Advantages remained balanced in Flanders; the result of the campaign depended on Turenne, who commanded on the Rhine. “If the king had taken the most important place in Flanders,” he wrote to Louvois, “and the emperor were master of Alsace, even without Philipsburg or Brisach, I think the king’s affairs would be in the worst plight in the world; we should see what armies we should have in Lorraine, in the Bishoprics, and in Champagne. I do assure you that, if I had the honor of commanding in Flanders, I would speak as I do.” On the 16th of June he engaged in battle, at Sinzheim, with the Duke of Lorraine, who was coming up with the advance-guard. “I never saw a more obstinate fight,” said Turenne: “those old regiments of the emperor’s did mighty well.” He subsequently entered the Palatinate, quartering his troops upon it, whilst the superintendents sent by Louvois were burning and plundering the country, crushed as it was under war-contributions. The king and Louvois were disquieted by the movement of the enemy’s troops, and wanted to get Turenne back into Lothringen. “An army like that of the enemy,” wrote the marshal to Louvois, on the 13th of September, “and at the season it is now, cannot have any idea but that of driving the king’s army from Alsace, having neither provisions nor means of getting into Lorraine, unless I be driven from the country.” On the 20th of September, the burgesses of the free city of Strasburg delivered up the bridge over the Rhine to the Imperialists who were in the heart of Elsass. The victory of Ensheim, the fights of Mulhausen and Turckheim, sufficed to drive them back; but it was only on the 22d of January, 1675, that Turenne was at last enabled to leave Elsass reconquered. “There is no longer in France an enemy that is not a prisoner,” he wrote to the king, whose thanks embarrassed him. “Everybody has remarked that M. de Turenne is a little more bashful than he was wont to be,” said Pellisson.
The coalition was proceeding slowly; the Prince of Orange was ill; the king made himself master of the citadel of Liege and some small places. Limburg surrendered to the Prince of Conde, without the allies having been able to relieve it; Turenne was posted with the Rhine in his rear, keeping Montecuculli in his front; he was preparing to hem him in, and hurl him back upon Black Mountain. His army was thirty thousand strong. “I never saw so many fine fellows,” Turenne would say, “nor better intentioned.” Spite of his modest reserve, he felt sure of victory. “This time I have them,” he kept saying; “they cannot escape me.”
On the 27th of June, 1675, in the morning, Turenne ordered an attack on the village of Salzbach. The young Count of St. Hilaire found him at the head of his infantry, seated at the foot of a tree, into which he had ordered an old soldier to climb, in order to have a better view of the enemy’s manoeuvres. The Count of Roye sent to conjure him to reconnoitre in person the German column that was advancing. “I shall remain where I am,” said Turenne, “unless something important occur;” and he sent off re-enforcements to M. de Roye; the latter repeated his entreaties; the marshal asked for his horse, and, at a hard gallop, reached the right of the army, along a hollow, in order to be under cover from two small pieces of cannon, which kept up an incessant fire. “I don’t at all want to be killed to-day,” he kept saying. He perceived M. de St. Hilaire, the father, coming to meet him, and asked him what column it was on account of which he had been sent for. “My father was pointing it out to him,” writes young St. Hilaire, “when, unhappily, the two little pieces fired: a ball, passing over the quarters of my father’s horse, carried away his left arm and the horse’s neck, and struck M. de Turenne in the left side; he still went forward about twenty paces on his horse’s neck, and fell dead. I ran to my father, who was down, and raised him up. ‘No need to weep for me,’ he said; ‘it is the death of that great man; you may, perhaps, lose your father, but neither your country nor you will ever have a general like that again. O, poor army, what is to become of you?’ Tears fell from his eyes; then, suddenly recovering himself, ‘Go, my son, and leave me,’ he said; ‘with me it will be as God pleases; time presses; go and do your duty.’” [Memoires du Marquis de St. Hilaire, t. i. p. 205.] They threw a cloak over the corpse of the great general, and bore it away. “The soldiers raised a cry that was heard two leagues off,” writes Madame de Sevigne; “no consideration could restrain them; they roared to be led to battle, they wanted to avenge the death of their father, with him they had feared nothing, but they would show how to avenge him, let it be left to them; they were frantic, let them be led to battle.” Montecuculli had for a moment halted. “Today a man has fallen who did honor to man,” said he, as he uncovered respectfully. He threw himself, however, on the rearguard of the French army, which was falling back upon Elsass, and recrossed the Rhine at Altenheim. The death of Turenne was equivalent to a defeat.
The Emperor Napoleon said of Turenne, “He is the only general whom experience ever made more daring.” He had been fighting for forty years, and his fame was still increasing, without effort or ostentation on his part. “M. de Turenne, from his youth up, possessed all good qualities,” wrote Cardinal de Retz, who knew him well, “and the great he acquired full early. He lacked none but those that he did not think about. He possessed nearly all virtues as it were by nature; he never possessed the glitter of any. He was believed to be more fitted for the head of an army than of a party, and so I think, because he was not naturally enterprising; but, however, who knows? He always had in everything, just as in his speech, certain obscurities, which were never cleared up save by circumstances, but never save to his glory.” He had said, when he set out, to this same Cardinal de Retz, then in retirement at Commercy, “Sir, I am no talker (diseur), but I beg you to believe that, if it were not for this business in which perhaps I may be required, I would go into retirement as you have gone, and I give you my word that, if I come back, I, like you, will put some space between life and death.” God did not leave him time. He summoned suddenly to Him this noble, grand, and simple soul. “I see that cannon loaded with all eternity,” says Madame de Sevigne: “I see all that leads M. de Turenne thither, and I see therein nothing gloomy for him. What does he lack? He dies in the meridian of his fame. Sometimes, by living on, the star pales. It is safer to cut to the quick, especially in the case of heroes whose actions are all so watched. M. de Turenne did not feel death: count you that for nothing?” Turenne was sixty-four; he had become a convert to Catholicism in 1668, seriously and sincerely, as he did everything. For him Bossuet had written his Exposition of faith. Heroic souls are rare, and those that are heroic and modest are rarer still: that was the distinctive feature of M. de Turenne. “When a man boasts that he has never made mistakes in war, he convinces me that he has not been long at it,” he would say. At his death, France considered herself lost. “The premier-president of the court of aids has an estate in Champagne, and the farmer of it came the other day to demand to have the contract dissolved; he was asked why: he answered that in M. de Turenne’s time one could gather in with safety, and count upon the lands in that district, but that, since his death, everybody was going away, believing that the enemy was about to enter Champagne.” [Lettres de Madame de Sevigne.] “I should very much like to have only two hours’ talk with the shade of M. de Turenne,” said the Prince of Conde, on setting out to take command of the army of the Rhine, after a check received by Marshal Crequi. “I would take the consequences of his plans if I could only get at his views, and make myself master of the knowledge he had of the country, and of Montecuculli’s tricks of feint.” “God preserves you for the sake of France, my lord,” people said to him; but the prince made no reply beyond a shrug of the shoulders.
It was his last campaign. The king had made eight marshals, “change for a Turenne.” Crequi began by getting beaten before Treves, which surrendered to the enemy. “Why did—the marshal give battle?” asked a courtier. The king turned round quickly. “I have heard,” said he, “that the Duke of Weimar, after the death of the great Gustavus, commanded the Swedish allies of France; one Parabere, an old blue ribbon, said to him, speaking of the last battle, which he had lost, ‘Sir, why did you give it?’ ‘Sir,’ answered Weimar, ‘because I thought I should win it.’ Then, leaning over towards somebody else, he asked, ‘Who is that fool with the blue ribbon?’” The Germans retired. Conde returned to Chantilly once more, never to go out of it again. Montecuculli, old and ill, refused to serve any longer. “A man who has had the honor of fighting against Mahomet Coprogli, against the prince, and against M. de Turenne, ought not to compromise his glory against people who are only just beginning to command armies,” said the, veteran general to the emperor on taking his retirement. The chiefs were disappearing from the scene, the heroic period of the war was over.