Death of the Princesse de Condé--Question of the prince’s
remarriage--The Maréchale de Saint-André’s bid for
his hand--Rumours of a matrimonial alliance with the
Guises--Catherine de’ Medici, alarmed at such a prospect,
resolves to set Mlle. de Limeuil at liberty--Isabelle joins
Condé at Valery--Intense indignation of the Huguenots at the
scandalous conduct of the prince--Quarrel between Condé and
Coligny--The leaders of the party take counsel together “to find
a remedy for so great an evil”--The deputation of Protestant
pastors--Condé declines to separate from his mistress, but
eventually breaks with her--His marriage with Mlle. de
Longueville--Condé persuaded by his wife to demand the return of
the presents he has given his mistress--Revenge of Isabelle--Her
marriage--Renewal of the civil war--Battle of Saint-Denis--Peace
of Longjumeau--Flight of Condé to La Rochelle--Third war of
Religion breaks out--Battle of Jarnac--Death of Condé.
Meanwhile, an event had occurred which had occasioned a great stir in
both political camps. The gloomy prognostications of the Princesse de
Condé’s physicians, which her husband had at first ridiculed, proved
only too correct; all through the remainder of the spring and the first
weeks of summer the poor lady was gradually becoming weaker, and by
the middle of July it was plain that she had but a few days to live.
To the last she was full of consideration for the husband who had
shown so little consideration for her. “Fearing to distress him too
much, if she told him herself that she felt death approaching,” writes
her biographer, “the princess charged two grave personages, friends
of her family, to go to Condé’s apartments, to acquaint him with what
she foresaw must soon happen, and to ask to be allowed to entrust him
with her last wishes in an authentic form. ‘Tell the prince’ said she
to these two friends, ‘that, since God is pleased so soon to separate
our bodies, I trust that at least our souls may continue to be bound
inseparably together in the love that we ought to bear to our common
Saviour Jesus Christ, who has delivered us so miraculously, in the
eyes of all Europe, from so many enemies and dangers. Tell him also
that,--to begin my will,--I constitute him the universal heir to the
mass of love I have vowed to my children, and I conjure him, in loving
them doubly henceforth both for himself and for me, to keep vigil in
my place, so that they may be brought up in the fear of God, which I
am convinced is the surest estate and patrimony that I can bequeath to
them’”[66]
Condé appeared to be profoundly affected. He declared that he had
received from the princess a lesson in courage which he should strive
to follow out of love for her and her children; adding that the latter
would always find him faithful to the last recommendations of their
mother. “God, who joined us now divides us, since it pleases Him,” he
exclaimed. “Oh! blessed will be the moment when He ordains that we
shall be reunited in Heaven in an eternal bond!”
These pious expressions, which, though they may appear so out of place
on the lips of the lover of Isabelle de Limeuil, were probably uttered
in all sincerity, seem to have greatly comforted the poor princess, who
then sent for two notaries and dictated to them her will.
Afterwards, she summoned her chaplain Pérussel, who, it will be
remembered, had shared Condé’s captivity after Dreux, and another
minister, and conversed with them on spiritual matters. On their
departure, Condé returned to her bedside, and spoke to her some
affectionate words. “Four things,” replied the dying princess, taking
his hands in hers, “render me happy: the first is the assurance of my
salvation, the second, the reputation of being a good wife, which,
by God’s grace, I have always had; the third, the certainty that you
are satisfied with me, because I have always as faithfully served,
loved, and honoured you as it was possible for a wife, in this world,
to serve, honour, and love her husband; the fourth, my joy that God
leaves to my children a father and a grandmother who will bring them up
in the fear of God, in accordance with my principal desire.” And, after
a moment’s silence, she added: “And now I must finish my course to gain
the prize which I see prepared for me at the end of the lists of this
laborious career.”
Condé then withdrew, and the princess’s children entered to take
farewell of her and receive her last recommendations.
Towards midnight, fearing that she would soon be too weak to make
herself understood, she expressed a wish to have a final conversation
with her husband. “I am sure,” said she, “that the prince will not mind
being awakened for this occasion, and it would not be well to wait
until I could no longer declare to him the things that God has put into
my heart.”
On the arrival of Condé, every one present withdrew out of hearing, and
husband and wife conversed together for nearly an hour.
[Illustration: ÉLÉONORE DE ROYE, PRINCESSE DE CONDÉ
FROM A DRAWING BY AN UNKNOWN ARTIST]
The end came at eight o’clock the following morning (23 July, 1564).
Condé, who had quite broken down, had retired to his own room, and one
of the Huguenot ministers, who had been with the princess in her last
moments, came to break the sad news to him. Dissolute as his life had
been of late years, his heart was not quite corrupted, and the grief
which he experienced was accentuated by remorse for the pain which his
infidelities had so often caused the devoted companion who had just
been taken from him. Now, probably for the first time, he seemed to
realize her worth, and nothing could have been more touching than the
terms in which he spoke of her to his weeping children. “Strive, my
darling,” said he to his little daughter, “to resemble your mother,
that God may help you as He helped her, that every one may esteem
you, and that I may love you more and more, as I shall surely do if you
are as she was.” Then, laying his hand on the head of the Marquis de
Conti, he added: “My son, you are the first pledge of the blessing and
favour of marriage which God gave to your mother and myself. See that
you always give me joy and consolation, which you will do if you follow
in the footsteps of your mother in the way of virtue. Recognize the
traces, for fear lest you go astray along the paths of the dangerous
labyrinth of this world. Sons are usually like their fathers, but you
must strive to copy the virtues of your mother. For you will be told
things about your father and his life that you ought not to imitate,
though there are other things in him that you must follow. But in your
mother ... you will find nothing which is not worthy to be a treasured
example, as she was worthy of a place in the foremost ranks of virtuous
women.”[67]
Condé’s grief had, for the moment, exalted him, but his impressions
were always more violent than lasting, and scandal was soon to be busy
again with his name.
* * * * *
Scarcely had the grave closed upon Éléonore de Roye than all kinds of
rumours were in circulation as to her probable successor, for no one
doubted that a prince in the very prime of manhood and of so “amorous a
complexion” would take unto himself a second wife with as little delay
as need be.
It was said that the Maréchale de Saint-André was determined to have
him; and the death of the little Mlle. de Saint-André, which had
occurred at the Convent of Longchamps three weeks before that of
Condé’s wife, whereby the little girl’s immense fortune passed to
her mother, was freely ascribed to a diabolical crime on the part of
the maréchale, in order to facilitate her union with the prospective
widower.
There would not appear to have been any foundation for so terrible a
charge, though the maréchale, who, besides being desperately enamoured
of Condé, was a very ambitious woman, was certainly prepared to move
heaven and earth to secure her elevation to the rank of Princess of the
Blood. No sooner did she learn that poor Éléonore de Roye’s recovery
had been pronounced hopeless than, with the object of establishing
claims to the expected vacancy which it would be difficult to ignore,
she made the prince a present of the estate and magnificent château
of Valery, near Sens, which her luxurious husband had rebuilt and
furnished with the most costly magnificence. At the time when it was
made, the singularity of this donation was somewhat modified by the
fact that the Queen-Mother had withdrawn her objections to the marriage
of the Marquis de Conti and Mlle. de Saint-André. But when, after the
death of the latter had put an end to this project, the maréchale not
only confirmed the gift of Valery, but added to it a considerable part
of the fortune left by her daughter, it was no longer possible to
disguise the motive of such unexampled generosity; and people said very
unkind things, both about the giver and the prince, who had accepted,
apparently without a blush, an almost regal present from one of his
avowed mistresses.
Other rumours espoused Condé to Catherine de Lorraine, daughter of the
late Duc de Guise, or to her widowed mother, Anne d’Este, still very
beautiful; while others again united him to Mary, Queen of Scots.
The prince had no intention of gratifying the ambitions of the
Maréchale de Saint-André, being of opinion that to become her husband
would be to pay altogether too high a price for Valery. But he was
not indisposed to a union with the Guises, for, though they had done
him much injury in the past, the death of their illustrious head had
deprived them of their influence, and he was of too generous a nature
to cherish rancour against a fallen foe.
The Guises on their side, hated by the Huguenots, disliked by the
Montmorencies, and distrusted by the Queen, were sincerely anxious
for a union with Condé. At the end of December 1564, the Cardinal de
Lorraine, returning from the Council of Trent, passed through Soissons,
to which town the prince had come, on a visit to his sister, Catherine
de Bourbon, abbess of the Convent of Notre-Dame. A very cordial
interview took place between them, in which his Eminence suggested to
Condé a marriage between him and Mary Stuart. The cardinal had already
approached his niece on the subject, excusing the inconsistency of a
Prince of the Church recommending a heretic as a husband on the ground
that the Huguenots were so determined to compass his ruin that the
marriage was absolutely necessary for his political salvation. It is
true that he had received scant encouragement from that quarter, since
the young queen strongly resented the idea that she should sacrifice
her own inclinations for his Eminence’s advantage. “Truly I am beholden
to my uncle,” she exclaimed, ironically. “So that it be well with him,
he careth not what becometh of me.”[68] Nevertheless, the cardinal did
not despair of ultimately obtaining her consent.
On leaving Soissons, the Cardinal de Lorraine proceeded to Paris,
followed by “fifty arquebusiers and some hundreds of his friends and
servants, with arms, pistols, and arquebuses.” On reaching Saint-Denis,
he was met by a gentleman of the Maréchal de Montmorency, governor of
the Île-de-France and his personal enemy, who warned him that he could
not be permitted to enter the city with an armed retinue, since the
edicts forbade it. The prelate, however, thought proper to ignore this
warning, and, on 8 January, 1565, he and his whole company entered
Paris by the Porte Saint-Denis. Near the Church of the Innocents
they were met by Montmorency, at the head of a considerable force.
The marshal called upon them to lay down their arms; one man refused
and was immediately killed; the rest obeyed, and the cardinal, never
remarkable for his personal courage, took refuge in the house of a
merchant, where he remained until nightfall.[69]
This affair caused a great commotion. The partisans of the Guises
assembled at Meudon, under the leadership of the Duc d’Aumale, and
assumed a most threatening attitude; the Maréchal de Montmorency
summoned his friends to his assistance, and, since he was known to
favour the Huguenots, Coligny and a number of Protestant gentlemen
hastened to Paris to offer him their services. To the general
astonishment, however, Condé took the cardinal’s part and openly blamed
Montmorency. “If,” said he, referring to the fracas by the Innocents,
“this was intended for a jest, it was too much; if it was in earnest,
too little.”
With the object of showing his sympathy with the cardinal in a more
practical form, at the end of January, he, in his turn, had the
pretension to enter Paris with three hundred horse. On reaching the
Bastille, however, he received a message from Montmorency summoning
him to retire immediately, which he did, though not without addressing
a letter of protest to the King, which was the cause of violent
dissensions in the Council, where the Cardinal de Bourbon took the part
of his brother, and the Constable energetically defended the action
of his son. On a second visit to the capital, which the prince paid a
few weeks later, he assured the Bishop of Paris that he would protect
the ecclesiastical hierarchy, and that he deplored the affront which
had been offered the Cardinal de Lorraine; and when the Parlement
complained that, in contravention of the edict, _prêches_ had
been held at his house, he answered that he had neither authorized nor
attended them.
The conduct of the prince, which seemed to foreshadow a complete
change of policy on his part, and to confirm the rumours already in
circulation as to a matrimonial alliance with the Guises, naturally
gave the greatest umbrage to the Huguenots, and the extreme section
of the party, already, as we have seen, very dissatisfied with their
leader, vented their annoyance in a stream of lampoons and satires. The
Duc d’Aumale, in his “Histoire des Princes de Condé,” stigmatizes the
Protestants as “unjust and ungrateful,” and declares that “there is no
proof that Condé ever contemplated a union by marriage with the House
of Lorraine.” “In any case,” continues the royal historian, “if he did
‘bind himself afresh’ to his former rivals; if he refused to take part
in all the quarrels and to share all the passions which were raging
around him, it was because he was sincerely desirous to obliterate the
traces, and prevent the renewal, of the civil war.”
The Duc d’Aumale could not, however, have been aware, at the time when
this was published, of a letter written by Mary Stuart to her aunt the
Duchesse d’Arschot, from which it would appear that the project of a
marriage between Condé and the beautiful young widow of François II.
had not only been very favourably received by the prince, but that
he had actually taken some active steps in the matter. “I hear,”
writes Mary, “that the Prince de Condé has demanded my hand of my
grandmother[70] and of the Cardinal de Lorraine, my uncle, and that
he has made the most splendid offers imaginable, both in regard to
religion and other matters.”[71]
Whatever offers Condé may have made, they had no effect upon Mary, who
was now firmly resolved to marry Darnley, and was, besides, thoroughly
disgusted with the unabashed selfishness of the Cardinal de Lorraine.
But the Queen of Scotland was not the only card in his Eminence’s
hand, and, though a match with the widowed Duchesse de Guise--whose
infatuation for the fascinating Duc de Nemours was common knowledge--or
with her daughter, a girl of thirteen, was not likely to prove so
attractive to Condé, there was still a possibility that it might be
arranged, and for months the Protestants were in a state of trepidation.
Their alarm was shared by Catherine de’ Medici, to whom the prospect
of so intimate a _rapprochement_ between the Houses of Bourbon
and Lorraine was anything but pleasing. Fully sensible though her
Majesty was of the importance of detaching the first Prince of the
Blood from the Protestant cause, she judged that this advantage would
be too dearly purchased by the subordination of the Crown to two
ambitious families, which would be the inevitable consequence of their
alliance; and she was determined to use every means in her power to
avert such a calamity. It was, of course, the King’s prerogative to
refuse to sanction a marriage of which he might happen to disapprove,
but arbitrary measures seldom commended themselves to Catherine, who
always preferred to gain her ends by indirect means, and shift the
odium which she would otherwise incur upon the shoulders of her agents.
She therefore bethought herself of Isabelle de Limeuil, who had lately
been transferred from Vienne to the Château of Tournon. Here, ready to
her hand, was a woman, who, as their intercepted correspondence had
shown her, had contrived, notwithstanding the infidelities of Condé,
to preserve all her power over him--a woman who knew better than any
other how to govern that emotional and fickle heart, by associating the
most incredible expressions of tenderness with the most exaggerated
flatteries. If Isabelle and her prince were brought together again, if
matters could be so arranged that the latter should be compelled to
offer his mistress the shelter of one of his own residences, was it not
probable that, in the joy of this reunion, the question of his second
marriage would be relegated, for a time at least, to the background?
And was it not probable, too, that the open scandal would provoke
remonstrances from his co-religionists which would irritate Condé and
widen the breach which existed between him and his party?
Interesting indeed must have been the letters which passed at this time
between the captive of Tournon and the enamoured prince, as the result
of which Isabelle was not only rescued from her prison, but conducted
to her lover at Valery, the château presented to Condé by her rival--a
piquant revenge, in good truth, upon the Maréchale de Saint-André for
the advantage which she had taken of Isabelle’s enforced absence from
the field! Unfortunately, the correspondence has not been preserved,
and the only light cast upon the situation is a passage in a despatch
from Smith to Cecil, dated 10 April, 1565: “The Prince de Condé has by
a certain gentleman stolen Mademoiselle de Lymoel (_sic_) from
Tournon, where she was kept, and has her with him.”[72]
And has her with him! Yes, under the same roof! “_Grand Dieu!_ it
was enough to make Calvin rise from his grave!”[73] cried the Huguenot
pastors, holding up their hands in righteous horror. “Had the prince
taken leave of his senses that he should choose to create a public
scandal and make ‘the Religion’ a by-word in the mouths of the forward,
at the very moment when Catherine and Philip of Spain were believed to
be plotting its destruction? Had not the way of salvation been made
sufficiently plain to him? Had not Bèze and Pérussel and l’Espine and
Laboissière spread the choicest flowers of their eloquence before him,
and in sermons two hours long insisted on the necessity of the leaders
of the faithful leading lives that should be beyond reproach. And this
was the result! Out upon him for an evil-liver and an apostate!”
The politicians of the party were scarcely less indignant than the
divines, and the reappearance of Isabelle upon the scene was the
signal for a very pretty quarrel between them and the prince, of which
a piquant account is given in an anonymous letter in Italian in the
Simancas Collection:
“I have seen a letter of Madame de Chelles,[74] from which she appears
to entertain great hopes of friendship between her brother and the
cardinal [de Lorraine]. My friend and I think that nothing can be
founded upon the words or the acts of so frivolous a man as Condé
shows himself to be, who is at present more than ever enamoured of his
Limeuil. Paroceli[75] has been here four or five days, and has preached
in private to his Huguenots. Languet learned from him that dissension
has arisen, on the subject of la Limeuil, between Condé and Châtillon
[Coligny], and subsequently between the aforesaid Condé and his
followers, in such manner that Châtillon has parted from him, has come
to Paris, and has withdrawn, some say to Châtillon, others to an abbey
belonging to him, and that Condé’s followers have almost all abandoned
him.
“The occasion of this was that a certain letter was written to Condé
from Paris, at the close of which was written: ‘The young lady has
come.’ Châtillon, who was standing over Condé as he read the letter,
saw these words, and, guessing what they meant, said to Condé: ‘I can
tell what young lady it is that has come to Paris.’ To which Condé
replied in certain words which showed that Châtillon’s speech was not
agreeable to him; but the matter did not go any further for the time
being.
“After la Limeuil had arrived at the place to which Condé had ordered
her to be conducted, and they had been seen together, certain
Huguenot gentlemen went and found Condé, and began to admonish him,
and, so to speak, to reprove him on the subject of his mistress. Upon
which, Condé, supposing that his secret had been revealed to them by
Châtillon, and that it was at his instigation that they had come to
reprove him, grew angry and said many things against them, designating
them spies, and then adding that it was Châtillon who had told them
this, and had sent them to talk to him; and with such indignation
that he went on to say much evil of Châtillon and his whole House ...
accusing them of arrogance, of presumption, and of not only wishing
to put themselves on a level with princes, when they were naught but
gentlemen of humble rank, but even of daring to insult him; and that
it was not in his nature to suffer this any longer. Through these and
such-like words, and even worse, it came about that Châtillon separated
himself from Condé. The greater part of the Huguenots have done
likewise, so that he finds himself now almost alone.”
However, a little reflection sufficed to convince the Huguenot leaders
that the discredit which it was bringing upon their Faith was not
the most serious aspect of Condé’s infatuation for Isabelle; in
other words, that Catherine was at the bottom of the affair, and had
deliberately thrown the two together again, “with a view to the prince
becoming what his brother had already become by means of la Rouet.”
“Suspecting which,” continues the writer of the letter already cited,
“the gentlemen of Condé’s party took counsel together to find a remedy
for so great an evil, and resolved upon three courses: first, that the
ministers should speak out roundly to him, representing the personal
danger and disgrace of the affair, and the scandal common to the whole
Religion, since he was its chief, and persuade him, if he could not
keep continent, to take a wife. The second remedy, if the first did
not succeed, was for the principal gentleman of the Religion, acting
in common accord, and his own intimate friends, to wait upon him and
address to him the same remonstrances, making him understand that, if
he did not separate himself from la Limeuil, they would leave him
alone; and, in effect, if he declined to do so, they would leave him.
The third remedy, in the event of the first two not succeeding, was
that la Limeuil should be excommunicated, anathematized, and delivered
into the power of Satan.”
In accordance with these resolutions, a deputation selected from the
most prominent Huguenot divines waited upon the backsliding prince
at Valery and endeavoured to awaken him to a sense of the error of
his ways. Condé received his reverend friends courteously enough, but
declared that he “could not keep continent and could not take a wife,
since it was difficult to find a person of his own rank belonging to
the same religion, and impossible to find one of another religion.”
Sadly the ministers withdrew, and the lay deputation advanced to the
attack. It met with anything but a cordial reception: indeed, his
Highness expressed his opinion of its interference with his private
affairs in such exceedingly plain language that it was obliged to beat
a precipitate retreat. Whence, we are told, “the Religion found itself
in great trouble and knew not what further to do, since it feared to
make matters worse by excommunicating la Limeuil, Condé being of a
nature so inclined to women that there was great danger lest la Limeuil
should have more power over him than the Religion.”
The counsel of the more prudent members of the party was to leave
things alone, and to trust to time. It proved a wise decision. Passions
of this kind are more frequently nourished than overcome by opposition;
while, on the other hand, the greater the facilities for enjoying
the society of the enchantress, the more speedily do disillusion
and lassitude arrive. After the first rapture of the reunion, Condé
began to ask himself whether, after all, he was not acting very
unwisely in quarrelling with his personal friends and jeopardizing
his political future for the sake of a girl who had been the cause of
so much scandal, and who, he had good reason to believe, had not even
troubled to remain faithful to him. Isabelle, perceiving that the
prince had not the least intention of regularizing their connexion,
and mortified by the manner in which her name was being bandied about,
began to regard Condé as the author of her misfortunes. Hence arose
quarrels, tears, recriminations. Condé reproached Isabelle with her
intimacy with Du Fresne and others. Isabelle retorted by accusing
the prince of neglecting her for the Maréchale de Saint-André, to
whom, in recognition of the gift of Valery, he had felt obliged to
pay some fugitive attentions, and did not fail to take advantage of
the opportunity which his acceptance of the maréchale’s calculating
generosity afforded her for the exercise of her powers of sarcasm.
Wit is a dangerous weapon for lovers to play with, and Isabelle’s was
sharper than a two-edged sword.
At length, the situation became so unpleasant that Condé determined to
put an end to it; and, towards the close of the spring, he broke of
his own free will with Isabelle and was reconciled to the Protestants.
They, needless to say, received the repentant prodigal with open arms
and lost no time in setting to work to procure him a second wife. They
found her in Mlle. de Longueville,[76] a young lady who joined to high
rank and the profession of the Reformed faith considerable personal
attractions, and, in September, Condé set off for Niort to obtain the
King’s sanction to his marriage, “leaving the Maréchale de Saint-André
dissolved in tears and regrets for having been so foolish as to consume
her substance in vain expenses to acquire the quality of the wife of a
Prince of the Blood.”
Catherine, though disappointed at the reconciliation between Condé
and his party, was greatly relieved that the prospect of an alliance
with the Guises had come to nothing; and Charles IX., on her advice,
not only expressed his approval of the marriage, but authorized its
celebration at the Court, according to the rites of the Protestant
religion, where it took place on 5 November 1565.
The new Princesse de Condé was in many ways an estimable young woman,
and the marriage, which was to be cut short by the prince’s tragic
death three years later, appears to have been a happy one. She had,
however, been very strictly brought up and was, moreover, of a
decidedly jealous disposition, and she was determined not to permit
the souvenirs of her husband to be dragged about France by his former
mistresses. No sooner married, than, following the example of the
Duchesse d’Étampes when she had supplanted Madame de Châteaubriand in
the affections of François I., she imperiously demanded of the prince
that he should require Isabelle to restore all the presents that he had
made her; and Condé, who was one of those men who are quite incapable
of resisting the caprices of the preferred of the moment, was mean
enough to obey.
When the messenger sent by the prince informed Isabelle of the object
of his visit, she flew into the most violent passion and made so
terrible a scene that, had he not happened to be a Huguenot of a
particularly inflexible type, he would doubtless have returned to Condé
and reported the failure of his mission. As it was, he waited patiently
until her fury had expended itself, and then repeated his request. The
lady left the room and presently returned with a packet, in which she
had placed all the jewels she had received from Condé and a portrait of
the prince by a celebrated painter, the first token of his love that
he had given her. Sitting down at the table, she placed the portrait
before her and decorated it with an enormous pair of horns; and then
contemptuously tossed it and the packet of jewels to the astonished
messenger. “Take them, my friend,” said she, “and carry them to your
master; I send him everything that he gave me. I have neither added
nor taken away anything. Tell that beautiful princess, his wife, who
has importuned him so much to demand from me what he gave me, that, if
a certain nobleman--mentioning him by name--had treated her mother
in the same way, and had claimed and taken away all that he had given
her, she would be as poor in trinkets and jewels as any demoiselle of
the Court. Well, let her make use of the paste and the baubles; I leave
them to her.”[77]
It is to be hoped that Condé had the grace to feel ashamed of himself
when his messenger returned; but since, in common with the majority of
his contemporaries, he possessed a pretty thick skin, we are inclined
to doubt whether such a reproof would have occasioned him more than a
momentary vexation. Public opinion, we are told, however, judged him
very severely, and declared that he had acted most ungenerously “in
having despoiled this poor lady, who had honestly earned such presents
_par la sueur de son corps_.”[78]
In one of his despatches, written soon after the rupture between the
prince and Isabelle, Sir Thomas Smith announced that “the Prince
de Condé had married la Limoel (_sic_) to a gentleman of his
and given them 15,000 livres a year.”[79] The Ambassador had been
misinformed, for Isabelle was still single at the time, nor was this
project, if it really existed, ever realized. The lady, however,
notwithstanding the notoriety of her relations with Condé and the
criminal charge which had been brought against her, was not long in
finding a husband.
There was at this time in Paris an Italian banker named Scipion
Sardini, who, by the favour of Catherine de’ Medici, who appears
to have dipped pretty frequently into his purse, had contrived to
amass an immense fortune, and “from a little sardine had grown into
a big whale.” He had recently acquired the estate and the beautiful
château of Chaumont-sur-Loire and the title of baron to go with it,
and desired to find a high-born damsel who would be willing to share
his prosperity. Since however, high-born damsels were, for the most
part, inclined to look askance at a suitor whose origin was shrouded
in impenetrable obscurity, he cast his eyes in the direction of
Isabelle, who, he judged, could not afford to be so fastidious; and
laid his heart, his fortune, and his brand-new title at her feet.
She condescended to accept them, and went to live at the sumptuous
Hôtel Sardini, situated in the Quartier Saint-Marcel, at the corner
of the Rue de la Barre. The union was not an unqualified success, for
Isabelle’s misfortunes had soured her temper, and the pretentious
_parvenu_ whom she had married had good reason to regret that he
had not contented himself with a more amiable, if less aristocratic,
consort. A great lady still, despite her lost reputation, she never
forgave her husband his lowly origin, and permitted no opportunity to
pass of allowing him to see how much she despised him; and, whenever
he had been so unfortunate as to displease her, which appears to have
happened pretty frequently, she would remind the poor man of the honour
which she, a woman of such noble birth, had done him in giving him
her hand. To which Sardini would reply, not without reason: “I have
done more for you; I have dishonoured myself in order to restore you
your honour!” Then Isabelle would hurl at him a perfect volley of
invective, until, fearing that it might be followed by missiles of a
more substantial kind, he would fly from her presence and take refuge
in his own apartments.
These perpetual quarrels, however, did not prevent this ill-assorted
couple from having three children: two sons and a daughter, of whom
the latter, Madeleine Sardini, is said to have inherited not a little
of her mother’s beauty. Unfortunately, she appears to have inherited
her quarrelsome disposition as well, as did her brothers, for, after
their parents’ death, they went to law over the division of the Sardini
fortune and provided the gentlemen of the long robe with some very
pretty pickings.
* * * * *
We shall pass briefly over the last three years of Condé’s eventful
life.
In September 1567, civil war broke out again. The Protestants, alarmed
and exasperated by the refusal of the Government to disband a force of
6000 Swiss mercenaries, which had been raised to protect the eastern
frontier from any aggression on the part of the Spanish troops marching
from Italy to the Netherlands, and by the rumour that this force was to
be used against them, rose in arms. An attempt was made by Condé and
Coligny, at the head of a body of cavalry, to seize the person of the
King, as he was on his way from Monceaux, where he had intended to pass
the autumn, to Paris. But Charles IX. had had time to summon the Swiss
to his aid, and, the Huguenots not being in sufficient force to risk an
engagement with these valiant mercenaries, who, “lowering their pikes,
ran at them like mad dogs, at full speed,” he reached his capital in
safety.
Condé followed, and, having been reinforced, occupied Saint-Denis and
proceeded, with astonishing daring, to blockade Paris, although his
army does not seem to have exceeded 6000 men and he was without a
single piece of artillery; while the Constable, with a vastly superior
force, lay within the city. Montmorency, however, who always carried
caution to excess, was disinclined to take the offensive, and it
was not until the Huguenots had committed the mistake of detaching
a considerable part of their slender forces, under Andelot and
Montgomery, to occupy Poissy and Pontoise that he ventured to offer
battle. The royal army was 19,000 strong, that of Condé certainly did
not exceed 3000 men; but the prince had no thought of declining an
engagement, and ranged his little force in the plain near Saint-Denis.
The Catholic attack was repulsed all along the line, and then, while
Coligny fell upon the Parisian militia, who, arrayed in all their
martial finery--“gilded like chalices,” as a Huguenot historian puts
it[80]--formed the left wing of the Royalists, and drove them in
headlong rout towards the city, Condé, with the bulk of the Huguenot
horse, burst suddenly upon the centre, where the Constable commanded in
person. So furious was his charge that the Catholic cavalry were broken
and hurled back, and the Constable himself fell mortally wounded. “If
the Grand Signior,” exclaimed the Turkish Ambassador, who, from the
heights of Montmartre, had witnessed the prince’s onslaught, “if the
Grand Signior had only two thousand men like those in white”--the
Huguenots wore white surcoats--“to place at the head of each of his
armies, in two years the world would be his!”
But a complete victory against such overwhelming odds would have
been in the nature of a miracle. The main body of the Catholics was
unbroken; the Maréchal de Montmorency, the Constable’s eldest son,
assumed the command and rallied the shattered squadrons; and the
Huguenots were being hard pressed on all sides, when the failing light
came to their assistance and enabled them to fall back in tolerable
order on Saint-Denis. The Royalists, disheartened by the fall of their
leader, did not attempt to pursue, and, after occupying the field of
battle for a few hours, in sign of victory, re-entered Paris.
Condé’s position being no longer tenable, he decided to lead his
little army towards Lorraine, to join John Casimir, son of the Elector
Palatine, who was advancing to his assistance with a strong force of
German mercenaries. After a hazardous march, he crossed the Meuse in
safety, and at Pont-à-Mousson effected his junction with the Germans.
Having now once more a considerable army at his disposal, he turned
again towards Paris, and, at the end of February 1658, laid siege to
Chartres. Negotiations for peace had, however, already begun; and a
month later (23 March) the Peace of Longjumeau, which reaffirmed the
Amboise Edict, put an end to the second war.
It was merely a respite, for the Court had determined on the ruin
of the Huguenots, and, at the end of August, orders were issued for
the arrest of Condé and Coligny, who were at the former’s château of
Noyers, in Burgundy. Warned in time, they succeeded in effecting their
escape with their families, traversed the whole breadth of France, and
gained the sheltering walls of La Rochelle, where they were joined by
Jeanne d’Albret, and her young son, Henri of Navarre.[81]
The third War of Religion began forthwith, and was conducted with
pitiless cruelty on both sides. The results of the autumn campaign
of 1568 were favourable to the Protestants, who mastered almost all
the South and West. But, with the new year, their fortunes changed.
In February, Condé and Coligny with the main Huguenot army marched
eastwards to meet their German allies, who were advancing from the
Rhine. Finding, however, that Tavannes, who directed the Catholics,
under the name of the Duc d’Anjou (afterwards Henri III.), had divined
this movement and was preparing to oppose it, they turned to the
South-West, with the intention of effecting their junction with the
Huguenot forces from Quercy. Tavannes, however, outmarched them and
barred their way, upon which they decided to turn to the North, seize
one of the passages of the Loire, and join hands with the Germans.
But Tavannes followed close on their heels, crossed the Charente by a
stratagem, and fell upon the rearguard of the Huguenots, under Coligny,
near Jarnac (13 March).
On learning that the Admiral was attacked, Condé, who had left Jarnac
with the main body of the army that morning, turned back at once, and,
after sending orders to the rest of his troops to follow him with all
speed, hastened to his assistance, at the head of three hundred horse.
“For,” says Le Noue, “he had the heart of a lion, and, whenever he
heard that there was fighting, he longed to be in the thick of it.”
On the way, he was met by a messenger from Coligny, who had sent to
beg him not to make a useless effort, and to retreat. “God forbid,” he
replied, “that Louis de Bourbon should turn his back to the enemy!” And
he hastened on.
On his arrival on the field, he found Coligny struggling against
almost the entire Catholic army, and in danger of being surrounded.
An immediate retreat would have been the wisest course, but to this
the prince refused to consent, and drawing up the cavalry in a long
line, with himself and his little band in the centre, he prepared to
charge the dense columns of the enemy. A day or two before, his left
arm had been badly crushed by a fall from his horse, and, now, as his
helmet was being adjusted, his right leg was broken by a kick from
the charger of his brother-in-law, the Comte de la Rochefoucauld. “You
see,” said he, mastering the pain, “that mettlesome horses are of more
harm than use in an army.”
Those about him urged him to dismount, but he refused to leave the
saddle, and, pointing first to his injured limbs and then to his
standard, which bore the device: “_Pro Christo et patriâ dulce
periculum_,” he cried: “Nobles of France, behold the moment so long
desired! Remember in what plight Louis de Bourbon goes into battle for
Christ and country!”[82]
Then, with his three hundred horse, he threw himself on the Catholic
cavalry and drove them back in confusion on the “_bataille_,”
which the Duc d’Anjou led in person. But the charges of Coligny on the
right, and Montgommery on the left, failed completely, and the prince’s
little troop was soon assailed on all sides by overwhelming numbers.
Condé’s horse was killed under him, and, impeded by his injuries, he
was unable to mount another. His followers gathered around him and
fought on heroically, but one by one they were cut down. Among these
devoted men, d’Aubigné tells us, was an aged gentleman named La Vergne,
who had joined Condé accompanied by twenty-five of his sons, grandsons,
and nephews. “He and fifteen of his relatives were left dead on the
field, all in a heap.”
Soon Condé found himself almost alone, but, with his back to a tree and
kneeling on one knee, he continued to defend himself. His strength,
however, was failing fast, and perceiving two Catholic gentlemen,
d’Argence and Saint-Jean, to whom he had once been of service, he
called out to them, raised the vizor of his helmet, and handed them his
gauntlets, in token of surrender. The two gentlemen sprang from their
horses, and with several others formed a circle round Condé, promising
to protect his life with their own. Scarcely, however, had they done
so, when Anjou’s guards passed by, and their captain, “a very brave
and honourable gentleman, called Montesquiou,”[83] learning the name
of the prisoner, wheeled his horse round, galloped up to the group,
and shouting: “Kill! _Mordieu!_ Kill!” drew a pistol from his
holster, and shot the prince through the head from behind, killing him
instantly.[84]
Thus died--“on the true bed of honour,” as Jeanne d’Albret expresses
it--Louis I. de Bourbon, Prince de Condé, a man typical of his age and
of his country, alike in his faults and his good qualities. If the
former were, as we have seen, many and glaring, the latter were no less
conspicuous. “In courage and in courtesy,” writes La Noue, “no one
surpassed him. His conversation was eloquent, rather from nature than
from cultivation; he was generous and affable towards all; he was an
excellent leader in war, yet, at the same time, a lover of peace. In
adversity he bore himself even better than in prosperity.”
The battle of Jarnac was little more than a skirmish, for the greater
part of the Protestant army had not been engaged at all, and its
losses, except among the cavalry, were inconsiderable. The death of
Condé, however, created a profound impression. The Catholic chiefs
fondly imagined that, with his fall, the Huguenots would cease to
be formidable, and their joy, in consequence, was extreme. A solemn
_Te Deum_ was chanted at the Court and in every church in France;
thanksgiving processions took place at Brussels and Venice, and the
captured standards were sent to Rome, to be hung in St. Peter’s as a
perpetual memorial.
By the orders of the detestable Anjou, the body of the murdered prince
was treated with the most shameful indignity. “The same night that the
battle was fought, the Duc d’Anjou, pursuing the enemy, victoriously
entered into Jarnac, whither the body of the prince was carried in
triumph on the back of a miserable ass, to the infinite joy and
diversion of the whole army, which made a joke of this spectacle,
though, while he lived, they were terrified at the name of so great a
man.”[85] For two whole days it lay exposed to the effects of the air
and the vulgar insults of Anjou and his creatures, and was then handed
over to Condé’s brother-in-law, the Duc de Longueville, who caused it
to be interred in the ancestral vault at Vendôme.[86]