‘A fellow-feeling makes one (sometimes) wondrous kind:’ the King, perhaps reflecting he might have acted in the same manner in a similar position, forgave his friend; but Turenne never forgave himself or the lady, whom he never saw again. For himself, many years afterwards, when the Chevalier de Lorraine jestingly inquired some particulars of the affair, the Vicomte replied, ‘Commençons par éteindre les bougies.’
The Duchess of Orleans, as is well known, did undertake the mission to her brother, in which she was successful; and shortly after her return to France, she retired to St. Cloud, accompanied by several nobles; among others the Vicomte de Turenne and the Duc de la Rochefoucauld. Her sudden and mysterious death, generally believed to be the effect of poison, in the bloom of life and beauty, threw a deep gloom over the whole nation. Turenne, in particular, was profoundly affected by the event, and again contemplated the idea of retirement from the world; but France could not spare him, and he was soon once more in the field, gaining fresh laurels. His last campaign was the crowning-point in his glory, and in the beginning of the year 1675 he returned to Versailles, his whole route one triumphal procession, flowers strewing his path, acclamations and blessings attending him wherever he appeared. In the whole of France no enemy was left, with the exception of such as were prisoners; on his arrival at Versailles, he was embraced by the King, and congratulated and made much of by all classes.
In the early summer of 1675, Turenne, at the head of the French army, and the Count de Montecuculi, in command of the Imperialists, were pitted against each other. Few periods in European history could have been richer in names of distinguished military commanders,—the King of France himself, the Prince of Orange, the Prince de Condé, the Elector of Brandenburg, the Swedish General Wrangel, and above all, the two heroes, Marshal Turenne and the Count de Montecuculi, who now disputed with each other the passage of the Rhine. A paragraph in the life of the former, from which we have so freely quoted, in speaking of the rival generals, draws so good a parallel that we are tempted to transcribe it verbatim:—
‘Les yeux de toute l’Europe furent fixés sur ces deux grands capitaines, tous deux à peu près du même âge, qui avoient eu la même éducation, formés par deux oncles rivaux, le Prince Maurice, et le Comte Ernest, ils avoient porté le mousquet, avant que de parvenir à aucune grade, et acquis par cinquante années de combats une expérience consommée dans toutes les parties de l’art militaire. L’un et l’autre avoit reçu du ciel un esprit supérieur, un jugement solide, et un sangfroid, qui dans un général n’est pas moins nécessaire, que la prévoyance et la valeur. Capitaines par étude, ils combattoient par principes, et ne donnoient presque rien à la fortune. Adorés du soldat, l’amour pour le général plutôt que l’obéissance due au souverain, paroissoit animer l’une et l’autre armée. Ces deux généraux se connoissoient, s’estimoient, et se craignoient mutuellement, ni l’un ni l’autre n’osoit attendre la victoire des fautes de son ennemi, il falloit l’emporter, à force de génie, et de science militaire.’
This last campaign was pronounced by an unquestionable authority to be the chef d’œuvre alike of Turenne and Montecuculi.
Their marches, countermarches, attacks and retreats, were worthy of themselves and of each other; but Turenne was stronger and more active than his rival, who often suffered from gout, which prevented his being as much on horseback as he desired.
On the 27th of July the two armies drew up in order of battle not far from the village of Salzbach, and the position seemed so advantageous for the French troops that Turenne, contrary to his custom, expressed himself most confidently as to the result. That morning, after hearing Mass and partaking of the Holy Communion, the Marshal mounted his horse and carefully reconnoitred the ground.
‘C’en est fait, je les tiens,’ he said to some by-standing officers. ‘Ils ne pourroient plus m’échapper; je vais recueillir les fruits d’une si pénible campagne.’ The hero was indeed about to rest from his labours, but not in the manner he anticipated. Observing a movement in the enemy’s infantry, which he imagined denoted an intention to retreat, he alighted from his charger, and sat down to rest under a large tree and eat his breakfast; after which he again mounted, and rode up a small eminence, forbidding his officers to follow him, and speaking with well-simulated severity to his nephew, the Duc d’Elbeuf, ‘Pray do not stick so close to me,’ he said; ‘you will cause me to be recognised.’ The youth’s life was very dear to him. The English general, Hamilton, now came up, and begged him not to ‘ride up there, for they are firing in that direction.’ Turenne smiled, and said, ‘Oh, I must not be killed to-day,’ and passed on his way. He then met General St. Hilaire, who asked his opinion of the spot at which he had stationed a battery. Turenne reined back his horse a few paces in order to judge, when a stray shot shattered St. Hilaire’s arm, and lodged in the middle of the Marshal’s body. His favourite charger, ‘La Pie,’ wheeled round, and galloped back to the point where he had left his company, then, halting suddenly, the lifeless body of Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne fell into the arms of his weeping soldiers. Twice he opened his eyes and moved his lips, but never spoke again; while St. Hilaire thus addressed his son, who was lamenting over his father’s sufferings: ‘Keep your tears,’ he said, ‘for the great man whom we have this day lost.’ The consternation of the spectators of this sad scene was indescribable; no one appeared to have retained his presence of mind. Hamilton ordered a cloak to be thrown over the body, and desired that the Marshal’s death should be kept secret as long as possible, foreseeing the panic which would ensue in the French army. But the news soon spread, and infused fresh vigour into the enemy’s troops. The gallant and generous Montecuculi, on hearing his great rival was no more, was much affected, and uttered these memorable words (no insignificant or inappropriate epitaph), ‘Il est mort! un homme qui faisoit honneur à l’homme.’ The intelligence spread from rank to rank, and was at first received in dead silence, broken after a few moments by sobs, and the loud cry, ‘Our father is dead, and we are lost!’ Then they rushed in crowds to gaze on his dead body, and called on their officers to lead them on to revenge his death. But no one seemed willing to take the command. There was delay and deliberation, till the soldiers again burst forth angrily, ‘Lâchez la Pie, elle nous conduira.’
The Marshal’s death changed and reversed the plans of both armies. The French began to retire, the Imperialists to advance, and on the 29th a desperate battle took place, with considerable loss on both sides, after which the French crossed the Rhine in retreat. So strong was their belief, even to superstition, in the ruling star of Turenne, that some soldiers were overheard to say, ‘If our father had been alive we should not have been wounded.’
On their march to Paris, the troops paid funeral honours to their beloved commander,—his nephews and brother officers with crape-bound arms, the soldiers with muskets reversed, the voice of the officiating priest often inaudible from the sobs and lamentations of the mourners. The King was deeply affected, as we learn from Madame de Sévigné’s touching letter to her daughter, and all the more so, that he received a despatch from the Marshal, full of the most sanguine anticipations of coming victory simultaneously with the account of his death. So deep a sensation was produced at Court, that, marvellous to relate, a projected fête that was to have taken place at Versailles was postponed, and a courtier was on the point of fainting!