TROUBLES IN PARIS
The Parliament at last took up the matter; men went about the streets
of Paris shouting "Down with Mazarin!" A revolution was feared, and
the Queen, with her young son, fled to St. Germain. The Royal troops
in the meantime, under Condé, were blockading Paris; the rebellion
known as the "Fronde" had begun.
Vincent de Paul was in a difficult position. His sympathies were
wholly with the suffering people; but, although it had long ceased to
meet, he was still a member of the Council of Conscience and owed
allegiance to the Royal party.
What would become of the poor in Paris if the town were reduced to
famine? This was the thought that was uppermost in his mind. On the
other hand, he had always insisted that the Congregation of the
Mission should in no way mix itself up with politics. The life of its
members was to be a hidden life of prayer and labor for souls. The
safest course was obviously to remain neutral and take no part in the
matter; but his own safety was the last consideration likely to move
him. Was it his duty to remain silent? That was the vital question.
Could he do any good by speaking? Long and earnestly did he pray for
guidance and, without a thought of the consequences to himself,
decided at last to act.
Judging of others in the light of his own straightforward honesty, it
seemed to him that if it were once clearly represented to the Queen
that it was Mazarin's presence alone that prevented peace, she could
not fail to see that it was her duty to force him to withdraw.
Surrounded as she was by courtiers who did not dare to tell her the
truth, she might be ignorant of how much she herself was to blame in
the matter. He had shamed her into doing what was right in the matter
of the Bishop of Poitiers. Might he not succeed in awakening her
conscience once more?
It was on his knees in the Church of St. Lazare that Vincent resolved
on the action that was at best only a forlorn hope, but still worth
trying. With his usual prompt energy, the old man of seventy-three
mounted his horse and, accompanied only by his secretary, du
Courneau, set out for St. Germain. The Seine was in flood and the
water breast-deep on the bridge over which they had to ride. Du
Corneau [sic] avowed afterwards that he was quaking with fright; but
Vincent, though wet to the skin, scarcely seemed to notice that all
was not as usual and rode on through the floods in silence. Arrived at
St. Germain, he asked to see the Queen, who, thinking that he had been
sent by the people to make their peace with her, admitted him at once
to her presence.
With the straightforward simplicity that characterized all his
dealings, he proceeded to state his errand. He had come, he said, to
ask the Queen, for the sake of her country and her people, to rid
herself of Mazarin and to forgive the rebels.
Anne of Austria listened in silence and gave no sign of either
sympathy or displeasure. When the speaker had ended, she quietly
referred him to Mazarin himself.
Vincent's hopes must have sunk low indeed at such a suggestion, but he
was determined to go through with what he had begun. Confronted with
the Cardinal, he earnestly represented to him that it was his duty to
sacrifice himself for the good of the country; that his retirement
would be an act of noble unselfishness which could not fail to win the
blessing of Christ; that it would put an end to the sufferings under
which France was groaning and save many innocent people from a fearful
and horrible death. Mazarin had a sense of humor, and it was perhaps
the only thing about him that responded to this appeal to his better
feelings. It no doubt appeared to him sufficiently ludicrous that
anyone should expect him to sacrifice himself for the sake of others,
and probably those around him would have shared his opinion.
Yet Vincent was justified in his experiment. Long as had been his
experience of the sin and misery of men, it had not taught him, any
more than it did his Divine Master, to despair of human nature. He had
only employed his usual methods with Mazarin: methods that had
prevailed with so many souls. He had appealed to the desire for good
which he believed lay hidden in the heart of every man, no matter how
deeply it might be buried under the refuse of a wasted life. He had
appealed and failed--his mission had borne no fruit, yet he could not
regret that he had undertaken it, although the consequences were to be
serious for himself. For during his absence the fact that he had gone
to St. Germain had leaked out among the people, and in one moment of
anger all his claims on their love and gratitude were forgotten.
"M. Vincent has betrayed us to the Queen!" was the cry in the streets
of Paris, while the mob, falling on St. Lazare, pillaged it from top
to bottom, carrying off everything on which they could lay hands.
Vincent had gained nothing and lost all; it was not even safe for him
to return to Paris, so great was the fury of the people; he had also
won for himself the ill will of both Mazarin and the Queen.
Yet with his usual humility and patience, he blamed no one but
himself. He had done, he declared solemnly to du Courneau, that which
he would have wished to have done were he lying on his deathbed; that
he had failed was due solely and entirely to his own unworthiness.
And now, since it was better for every reason that he should not
return to Paris, he determined to undertake a visitation of the
Congregation of the Mission Priests and Sisters of Charity in every
center where they were working in France. In spite of his weariness
and his seventy-three years, he set forth on his journey, riding the
old horse that was kept to carry him now that he could no longer
travel on foot.
The suffering and misery that he witnessed, the horrors of famine and
of war, only seemed to redouble his zeal to win the souls of men for
their Maker. He knew the purifying force of suffering borne for God;
he knew also the danger of despair. These poor creatures must be
taught at any cost to lift their hearts to God, to bear their anguish
patiently, to remember amid what agonies the Son of God had given His
life for them. Wherever he went, his burning words and heroic example
infused new life and courage into the hearts of his sons and daughters
in Christ, who, in the life of abnegation they had undertaken, had
often good reason for despondency.
Traveling in these lawless times was both difficult and dangerous, for
the country roads were infested with robbers, but Vincent had no fear.
He was seldom free from illness, which was sometimes increased by the
privations he had to undergo, but he traveled on without resting.
Yet, amid all the new suffering which he had to witness and relieve,
he was always mindful of his dear poor in Paris, which was still
besieged by the troops of Condé. He had obtained a promise from the
Queen during their last interview to let grain be taken into the town
to feed the starving inhabitants, but she had not had sufficient
energy to see that it was carried out.
The people were beginning to realize what they had lost in M. Vincent
and to suspect that they had misjudged him. Hunger at last forced them
to make terms with the Royal party, although the hated Mazarin was
still supreme, and the Queen and her young son re-entered Paris in
triumph.
But even Anne of Austria was not so foolish as to make her entry with
the Cardinal at her side, and during the few weeks which still elapsed
before he made his appearance in the capital, the Queen, free for a
moment from the evil influence that stifled all her better impulses,
wrote to Vincent, begging him to return. He was ill at Richelieu when
the message reached him, and the Duchess d'Aiguillon, one of the most
devoted of his Ladies of Charity, sent a little carriage to fetch him.
She had known him long enough, however, to be sure that his love of
mortification would prevent him from availing himself of what he would
certainly look upon as a luxury. The carriage was accompanied by a
letter from the Queen and the Archbishop of Paris ordering him in
virtue of obedience to use it in the future for all his journeys. He
obeyed, but sorely against the grain, and as long as he was obliged to
avail himself of it always referred to the little carriage as his
"disgrace."
"Come and see the son of a poor villager riding in a carriage," he
would say to his friends when he took leave of them; and indeed, "M.
Vincent's little carriage" soon became well known in Paris. It was
always at the disposal of anyone who wanted it, and when Vincent used
it himself it was generally shared by some of his beloved poor. The
fact that it came in handy for taking cripples for a drive or the sick
to the hospital was the only thing that reconciled him to its
possession.
But the troubles of the Fronde were not yet at an end, and with
Mazarin's return to Paris the discontent broke out afresh. The people
were glad enough during the troublous times that followed to have
Vincent once more in their midst.