The queen was fascinated at first sight with Ninon. She placed her two hands on her shoulders and gazed long and fixedly into her face. “Now I understand, my dear,” she said at last, “all the follies the men commit, and will commit for you. Embrace me,” and she bestowed two such sounding kisses on Ninon’s cheeks, as she had bestowed on the king’s. Then taking her by the arm, she led her to her own assigned apartments, at the door of which stood two bearded men, one of them Count Monaldeschi, her Grand Master of the Horse, the other the successor of the redoubtable Desmousseaux, the Chevalier Sentinelli, captain of her guard.
Some time before her visit to Paris, Christina had abdicated, declaring that the formalities and restrictions of the existence of a crowned queen were unendurable, the cares of a kingdom rendered life a slavery, and she desired perfect liberty. The liberty she sought for herself, however, she in no wise extended to others; for while she renounced her claims to her inherited kingdom, she reserved to herself absolute and supreme authority, with the right of life and death over all who should enter her service or be of her suite. Then, a Protestant born, she joined the Catholic communion. It was probably a mere caprice; for she did not spare her coarse witticisms on the newly-adopted faith, and very soon she contrived so seriously to offend the College of Cardinals that she was forced to leave Rome, which she had entered on horseback, dressed almost like a man. After a while she had come to France, and probably somewhat impressed with the elegancies of the Court, she made some modification of the hideous attire she had first appeared in. When Ninon first met her in the Louvre gallery, Her Majesty wore a grey petticoat skirt of decent length, trimmed with gold and silver lace, a scarlet camlet coat, her wig was of the unvarying pale yellow hue, and she carried a handkerchief of costly lace, and a broad-brimmed hat, plumed with black ostrich feathers. With her white skin, her aquiline nose and fine teeth, she would have made a very presentable boy.
She was very voluble, and her immeasurable admiration of Ninon to her face, was almost disconcerting, even to one so very well accustomed to compliments. At last, the subject being exhausted, the ex-queen fell to asking all sorts of questions about the king, the queen, the cardinal, the new palace at Versailles, the Italian Opera. Then she had much to say about her own country and her abdication; about Descartes, who had died at her Court a victim to the climate; about Count Monaldeschi, with whom, she confided to Ninon, she was on terms of very close intimacy, and about a hundred other things.
During Christina’s stay in Paris, Ninon had the delight of seeing again that most dear friend and protégé of hers, Molière, after his long absence in the provinces. Christina was with Ninon when he arrived, and as he and his company were to play that same night the Cocu Imaginaire, at the Petit-Bourbon, it was arranged that the two ladies should be present.
Christina had the appetite of an ogress, and before they started for the theatre, she did ample justice to the handsome repast Perrote served up. Then Her ex-Majesty summoned her captain of the Guards, and Grand Master of the Horse—who had been regaled in another room on turkey and other dainties, and they repaired to the Petit-Bourbon.
The evening proved anything but enjoyable to Ninon. A market-woman would have comported herself more decently than this eccentric, semi-barbarous royal person. She greeted the sallies of the actors with loud shouts of laughter, and used language that was rankly blasphemous; while she wriggled and lolled in her chair, and stretched her feet out among the footstools and cushions, in appalling fashion. It was in vain Ninon respectfully intimated that the eyes of everybody were upon them; Christina’s only reply was to beg her to let her laugh as much as ever she wanted.
The queen’s liking for Ninon grew embarrassing. Six months of her constant society were almost more than the most good-natured tolerance could endure, and for that length of time the favour of the queen’s presence was bestowed on Paris. Then Cardinal Mazarin, also more than tired of her, entertaining moreover, suspicions that she was brewing political mischief, contrived to tempt her to seek change of air and scene at Fontainebleau.
Christina caught the wily cardinal’s bait. Very well—yes, it was a good idea. She had a great desire to see the renowned palace that Francis I. had loved so well, and to Fontainebleau, to the relief of Ninon and of divers other people, the ex-queen went: not to remain long, however. One morning, at a very early hour, the Chevalier Sentinelli arrived at the rue des Tournelles and informed Ninon that she was wanted at the Palais Royal, by his royal mistress, who had returned to Paris.
It was useless to devise some excuse for not obeying the summons—invitation, or what it might be—for that was only to bring the queen herself to the rue des Tournelles; and so to the Palais Royal Ninon went, to find Christina stretched upon a miserable pallet-bed, with an evil-smelling, just-extinguished candle on the table beside her. A serviette did duty for a night-cap, tied round her head, which was denuded of every hair; for she had had it shaved close on the previous night. Christina presented a strangely grotesque and wretchedly miserable picture. Seizing Ninon by both hands, she told her that she was suffering the deepest agony of mind—a grief that was horrible—and begged her to stay by her. At this moment, Sentinelli entered, and a whispered conversation ensued. “Oh, they will prevent me?” she cried then. “They will prevent me, will they? Let them dare. Am I not a queen? Have I not a right to high justice? Very well, then,” she went on, when again Sentinelli had bent to whisper again. “We must dissimulate. I will go back to Fontainebleau. There at least, I can do as I please,” and she prevailed on Ninon to accompany her. And there in the Galérie des Cerfs at Fontainebleau the hideous tragedy was enacted. The farce of this woman’s daily life fades out in the thought of her ferocity and revengeful instincts. Monaldeschi had offended her: he had done worse, he had been treacherous towards her. Pitiless, with eyes glittering with rage and hatred, she stood in the Galérie, where the fading daylight was illumined by the flare of the torches held by her pages, and taxed the wretched culprit—pleading for mercy at her feet—with his crimes; but it was not accorded; “Ah, let me live!” he entreated—“let me live!”
And Ninon, who had dreaded something, but was utterly unprepared for such a frightful scene, joined her entreaties to his and to those of his confessor, the monk Lebel. “Ah, no! A woman,” she sobbed, “cannot give an order for this man to die.”