In the second Fronde, which broke out about two years later (1650-1652), the position of affairs is altered. M. de Retz appears in the character of mediator, and Mademoiselle casts her lot with the rebels. The princes of the house of Condé seize the opportunity to avenge insults offered to them by Mazarin, and Gaston d'Orleans joins the Frondeurs—perhaps in order to avoid the trouble of leaving Paris.
Skilful writers have left accounts so voluminous of those troubled times, that they rise before us rather in a series of living pictures than as historical records. That midnight conference in the oratory, between fair, queenly Anne of Austria and the little dark, misshapen coadjutor; Mazarin threatening Condé; and he, with curled lip and reverential mockery, leaving the ministerial presence with the words, "Farewell, Mars!"—the quelled populace, streaming hour after hour through the king's bedchamber, while his mother's beautiful hand holds back the velvet hangings, that each one may look upon the sleeping boy and know that he has not fled from Paris—all is before us as if it [{367}] happened yesterday. The chief actors with their talents and foibles are better known to us than to their contemporaries; and the French nation is today as it was then—ready to be won over by any clever bit of scenic effects.
Mademoiselle and Condé, who had hitherto been sworn foes, came to a formal reconciliation in 1651, and being bound together by their detestation of Mazarin, welcomed the outbreak of the second Fronde. Anne of Austria declined the company of her niece on leaving Paris, and she was thus left to the flattery of those who well understood the right use of her folly and her strength.
The golden moment of her career arrived. Orleans must be secured to the Frondeurs, or Condé, coming from Guyenne, would find the line of the Loire cut and the enemy master of the position. Monsieur was firm upon two points: that he would not leave Paris himself, and that his private troops should occupy the position best fitted to protect him if the royal army should attack Paris. His daughter, who had been longing for an opportunity to distinguish herself, offered to go to Orleans in place of the duke, and on Monday, March 25th, 1652, left Paris amid the benedictions of the people. A contemporary MS. journal says: "About noon Mademoiselle's carriages assembled in the court of the Orleans palace, ready for the campaign; she wore a gray habit covered with gold, to go to Orleans. She left at three o'clock, accompanied by the Duke de Rohan, Madame de Bréanté, Countess de Fiesque, and Madame de Frontenac." Monsieur sneered at the project, and said her chivalry would not be worth much without the common sense of Mesdames de Fiesque and Frontenac—her maréchales de camp, as they were called between jest and earnest.
Upon the plains of Beauce the young amazon appeared before the troops on horseback, and was received with enthusiasm. "From that time," she says, "I began to give my orders;" and a little later at Toury, where she was joyfully welcomed by a crowd of officers: "they declared that a council of war must be held in my presence. . . . That I must accustom myself to listening to matters of business and war; for henceforth nothing would be done except by my orders."
Arrived before Orleans, Mademoiselle found closed gates and small disposition to grant admittance. The unfortunate city government, pressed on one side by Frondeurs and on the other by royalists, asked only leave to remain neutral. The rebel army had been left at some distance from Orleans for fear of alarming its inhabitants, and M. le gouverneur, learning that the attacking party was a lady, sent out a tribute of confectionery, "which seemed to me amusing," remarks Mademoiselle.
At last, tired of waiting upon the governors indecision, her royal highness went out with her ladies for a walk, much against the judgment of her advisers—or ministers, as she called them. The rampart was edged with people, who cried, on seeing her, "Long live the king and princes, and down with Mazarin!" And she answered, "Go to the Hotel de Ville and make them open the gates;" with other exhortations of the same kind, occasionally mingled with threats, "to see if menaces would move them more than friendship."
Now it so happened that before her departure from Paris, M. le Marquis do Vilaine, a noted astrologer, had drawn the princess into Madame's private room, and imparted to her the following prophecy: "All that you shall undertake between Wednesday noon, March 27th, and Friday will succeed; and you shall even at that time accomplish extraordinary things." This prediction was in her pocket, and anxiously as she disclaims all faith in it, we may believe that it encouraged her to make efforts which gave no apparent promise of success. When, toward evening, she stood outside the [{368}] Porte Brulée, did not M. de Vilaine's horoscope rise in her estimation? The river was crossed and the bank ascended by the aid of some chivalrous boatmen, an improvised bridge of boats, and a little more scrambling than would seem consistent with royal dignity. "I climbed like a cat, grasping at brambles and thorns, and springing over hedges without hurting myself in the least. * * Madame de Bréanté, who is the most cowardly creature in the world, began to cry out at me, and at every one who followed my steps; making great sport for me." Outside the gate, a group of bargemen worked under Mademoiselle's inspiriting direction; inside were citizens, urged on by the Count de Gramont, to tear down the planks; while the guards looked on in armed neutrality. When the two middle planks were torn off from the transverse iron bars, Gramont signed to the princess to come forward. "As there was a great deal of rubbish, a footman took me up and passed me through the hole, where no sooner did my head appear than they began to beat the drums. I gave my hand to the captain and said: 'You will be glad to be able to boast that you let me in.' Cries of 'Long live the king and princess, and down with Mazarin!' were redoubled. Two men took me and placed me in a wooden chair. I don't know whether I sat in the chair or on the arms, the rapture of my delight set me so completely beside myself. Every one kissed my hands, and I was ready to die with laughter to find myself in such a position." And so the city was taken, and Mademoiselle earned the title of Maid of Orleans, all in an afternoon's frolic. If she thought to retain command of Paris in a fashion so amusing, the battle of Porte Saint Antoine must have undeceived her.
The heroine was received with rapture on her return to Paris. She was assured by Condé that the wish of his heart was to see her queen of France, and that no treaty should be concluded without especial consideration for her. No one can be more uninteresting than her royal highness when elated by success, we must confess; but an hour of trial was approaching that should develop for the first and last time in her life, truly grand and heroic qualities. Until the 2d of July, 1652, Mademoiselle had given no signs of feminine feeling except by exhibiting those foibles which are popularly supposed to be especially characteristic of women. But on that day, as she hurried through the streets of Paris, carrying hope to every one she met—consoling poor Guitant, shot through the lungs, pausing to speak a word of comfort to the wretched Rochefoucauld, and putting new heart into the great Condé himself, we recognize sympathies worthy of a better development than they ever received. During a pause in the battle M. le Prince came to her in a pitiable condition, covered with dust and blood, his hair tangled and his cuirass dented with blows. Giving is naked sword to an equerry, he flung himself down upon a seat and burst into tears "Forgive my emotion," he exclaimed; "you see a desperate man before you. I have lost all my friends; Nemours, La Rochefoucauld and Clinchamp are mortally wounded."
Mademoiselle was able to assure him that these reports were greatly exaggerated, and Condé, restored to himself, sprang upon a fresh horse and galloped off to his post. The battle was at its height. Paris had simultaneously attacked at the Porte Saint-Denis and the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. Inquiring the whereabouts of Turenne, M. le Prince rushed to the faubourg, knowing that where the marshal commanded there must Paris be most in peril. Soon came the tidings that the barricade of Piepus had been forced. At the head of a hundred musketeers he threw himself upon the barricade, and drove the enemy back in its own dust. Never had the conqueror been greater than on that useless, terrible 2d of July.