Arrival of Condé at the Court--His reception--He returns to
Paris--His ingratitude towards his wife--Dignified behaviour
of _Madame la Princesse_--Affectionate relations
between Condé and his son--Indifference of the young prince
towards his mother--Marriage of the Duc d’Enghien and Anne
of Bavaria--The affair of Poland--Condé’s conquest of
Franche-Comté--The mind of the Princesse de Condé becomes
affected--The footman Duval--Mysterious affair at the Hôtel de
Condé: the princess is wounded in a brawl between Duval and the
Comte de Bussy-Rabutin--Singular attitude of _Monsieur le
Prince_--Trial of Duval--Calumnies against the Princesse de
Condé: letter of Madame de Sevigné--The princess is exiled to
the Château of Châteauroux, in Berry--Her departure: a touching
scene--Her captivity--Her hallucinations--Visit of Père Tixier.
On 4 January, 1660, Condé arrived at Coulommiers, whither the Duc and
Duchesse de Longueville had come to welcome him. After remaining there
a week, the princess and her little daughter, who had joined her the
day after her arrival, set out for Trie; the Duc d’Enghien was sent
to Augerville, to the house of the Président Perrault, a partisan of
_Monsieur le Prince_, who had himself recently returned from
exile; while Condé, accompanied by his brother-in-law, continued his
journey to Aix, in Provence, where the Court then was, to salute the
King. At Lambesc, they were met by the Prince de Conti, who, after
the surrender of Bordeaux, had made his peace with the Court and
espoused one of Mazarin’s nieces, the beautiful and virtuous Anne Marie
Martinozzi. Conti must have felt a little uneasy as to the reception he
was likely to meet with from the brother whose cause he had abandoned.
However, Condé greeted him affectionately, and, though the intimacy
which had once existed between them was never renewed, they remained on
friendly terms.
On 27 January, _Monsieur le Prince_ reached Aix and went at once
to visit Mazarin, to whom, since the Peace of the Pyrenees, he had
written several “rather civil” letters. The interview between the
two old enemies, though necessarily somewhat constrained, passed off
satisfactorily enough. Condé recognized that the Cardinal was now far
too firmly seated in the saddle ever to be dislodged, while Mazarin
felt that he could afford to be magnanimous. At its conclusion the
prince was “introduced into the Queen’s chamber, where he presented his
respects to their Majesties.”[206] The memoirs of the time,--even those
of _la Grande Mademoiselle_, who does not conceal her chagrin
at not having been able to learn anything--are silent regarding this
interview, which lasted more than an hour. No one seems to know what
passed, but all are agreed that, when it was over, the Prince de Condé
appeared to be as much at his ease at Court as if he had never left it.
The following evening the prince supped with Mazarin, who entertained
him magnificently, and who, a few days later, in writing to Lenet,
spoke in the warmest terms of their “friendship and cordial relations.”
But, if the past were forgiven, it could not be forgotten, at least
until time had enabled the prince to show that he was sincere in his
professions of fidelity to his Sovereign. Condé, recognizing this,
did not prolong his stay at the Court, and on 4 February he set out
for Paris, where he was soon rejoined by his wife. In the capital he
met with a most cordial reception; the Parlement and the other Courts
presented him with an address of welcome; all Paris hastened to follow
their example; and the Hôtel de Condé, so long deserted, was for some
weeks the centre of animation.
It was in this splendid residence which she had not entered since the
death of her mother-in-law, ten years before, that a fresh and final
disillusion awaited the long-suffering wife of the Great Condé. On her
return from exile, Claire-Clémence might well have believed that a new
life was about to begin for her--a life in which she would be restored
both to her place in Society and in her husband’s house, and receive
abundant compensation for all the hardships and humiliations which she
had experienced. Under what immense obligations had she not placed her
husband! Twice within two years she had brilliantly played the rôle of
a party leader. At the peril of her life she had traversed the seas to
bring him his son and to take her place by his side, and for long years
had uncomplainingly endured all the bitterness of poverty and exile.
Was it conceivable that a man could fail to be touched by so much
courage, so much devotion? Was it conceivable that, now that it was in
his power to show his appreciation of all that she had suffered for his
sake, he should not hasten to take advantage of the opportunity?
And the changes which had taken place since their departure from France
seemed to favour a better understanding between husband and wife. To
“_le temps de la bonne régence_,”[207] that era of facile and
romantic gallantry, had succeeded one of regularity, order, and outward
decorum, revealing a profound change in taste and morals. Of the salons
which had been so much frequented before the Fronde, some were already
nothing but a memory; others retained the merest shade of their former
reputation. Condé’s old _entourage_ no longer existed; the band of
pretty women whom his sister had gathered round her, and among whom he
had moved as a kind of demi-god, was dispersed. Madame de Longueville
herself had turned _dévote_, and divided her time between her
husband and children and her religious duties. Madame de Châtillon had
found a second husband in the Duke of Mecklenburg, and, though she
was still residing in France, she seemed more anxious to secure his
intervention in her lawsuits and her conjugal difficulties than to pick
up the thread of their interrupted intrigue.
Besides, Condé himself was no longer the dashing cavalier of former
times. Never very robust, his health had been severely tried by the
fatigues of so many years of active service; and already he was
beginning to suffer from those attacks of gout which were to be the
torment of his old age. Now, on the threshold of his fortieth year,
weary and disillusioned, it seemed but natural that he should seek
solace for his hardships and his thwarted ambition in the society of
his wife and children.
Condé had too much family pride to neglect his duties towards his
son, but, notwithstanding all the claims which she had upon his
consideration, his behaviour towards his wife showed no improvement.
It was, indeed, more cold and distant than ever. In the winter, which
he generally passed in Paris, he and the princess each had their
apartments under the same roof; they were seen together at State
ceremonies; on great occasions, it was the latter who did the honours
of the Hôtel de Condé. But in the summer, Claire-Clémence never
appeared at Chantilly, where _Monsieur le Prince_ was accustomed
to gather round him all the celebrities of the time, save on the rare
occasions when her presence was formally requested; soon she ceased
to come there at all. Apart from attendance at official ceremonies
and occasional visits to Saint-Maur, accompanied by a few persons
of her suite, she seldom left the Hôtel de Condé, and led almost as
retired a life as she had formerly passed among the Carmelites of the
Faubourg Saint-Jacques. For the last and cruel disillusion which she
had experienced had deprived her of all desire to mingle with the gay
world around her. Too proud and too generous to complain, she gave as
an explanation of her retirement the cares which her delicate health
imposed, and the dignity of her behaviour gained for her the admiration
and sympathy of all who penetrated the secret of this princely
_ménage_.
[Illustration: ANNE OF BAVARIA, DUCHESSE D’ENGHIEN
FROM AN ENGRAVING BY MONCORNET]
But Condé’s neglect was not the only trial which the poor princess
had to endure. In the early years of her married life, she had been
able to find some consolation for her husband’s indifference in the
affection of her son, the Duc d’Enghien, whom she had kept constantly
with her and to whom she was passionately devoted. But the boy, as we
have mentioned, had been separated from his mother soon after their
arrival in Flanders, and sent to the Jesuit College at Antwerp, since
which time she had only seen him at long intervals. _Monsieur le
Prince_, on the other hand, had superintended his son’s education,
and, as the lad grew older, he spent more and more of his time with
his father, for whom he soon conceived the warmest admiration and
affection; while Condé, on his side, was tenderly attached to his son.
Unhappily, these pleasant relations were established at the cost of the
princess; for the little consideration which his father, who could do
no wrong in his eyes, showed for his mother was naturally not without
its effect upon Enghien, and gradually the affection which as a boy
he had entertained for the latter was replaced by the most complete
indifference.
Almost as soon as he re-entered France, Condé began to occupy himself
with matrimonial projects on behalf of his son. If we are to believe
_la Grand Mademoiselle_, overtures were made to her, and the Duc
d’Enghien was “ardently desirous for this marriage, and very assiduous
in his attentions to her.” The princess, however, excused herself, “on
the ground of the great disparity of age between herself and the duke,”
though she informs us, in her “Mémoires,” that it was her suitor’s
“want of merit,” and his “base mind,” to which she objected.
No difficulty would, however, have presented itself had Condé been
willing for his son to marry _Mademoiselle’s_ half-sister, Mlle.
d’Alençon. _Madame la Princesse_ was very anxious for this
alliance, as were several of the prince’s counsellors; but Condé had
other views for his heir, and had determined to marry him to Anne of
Bavaria, second daughter of Edward of Bavaria, Prince Palatine, and of
Anne de Gonzague, sister of the Queen of Poland.[208]
His reason for preferring an alliance with a foreign princess of the
second rank and of little fortune to one which would have strengthened
the position of the Condés, by uniting them to the younger branch of
the Royal Family with its great possessions, was the belief that his
son’s marriage with a niece of the King and Queen of Poland would be of
material assistance to him in the realization of an ambition which he
had for some time cherished.
This ambition was nothing less than Enghien’s succession to the
elective crown of Poland, which the reigning sovereign, the childless
John Casimir, was prepared to abdicate so soon as a candidate likely
to be acceptable to the great majority of his subjects could be found.
This idea seems to have originated with the Queen of Poland, one of
Condé’s most intimate friends, who was using all her influence to
secure the support of her husband and the Polish nobles, who in that
State were masters of the throne, for the Duc d’Enghien.
Louis XIV. was not ill-disposed towards the Polish project, and, on 10
December, 1663, the marriage of the Duc d’Enghien and Anne of Bavaria
was celebrated in the King’s chapel at the Louvre. A clause in the
marriage contract stated that the King and Queen of Poland adopted the
bride “as their only daughter.” Meanwhile, however, it was becoming
apparent that Condé himself was likely to be far more acceptable to
the Poles than his son, and the French Court seemed to approve of this
solution. At the beginning of 1665, John Casimir decided to abdicate,
and Condé was preparing to start for Warsaw with Enghien--whether
it was his intention to get himself or his son elected is a moot
point--when Louis XIV., fearing to offend the Duke of Neuburg, a rival
competitor, whose possessions of Berg and Jülich commanded the passages
of the Rhine and covered the Spanish Netherlands on the North-East,
ordered him to renounce his candidature. “My cousin,” said he, “think
no more of the Crown of Poland; the interest of my State is concerned
in it.” Condé reluctantly obeyed, and when, in June 1669, John Casimir,
who had been persuaded by the prince’s friends in Poland to retain the
crown until then, in the hope that circumstances might permit him to
renew his candidature, Michael Wisnowiecki was elected.
Condé received some compensation for the mortification which the
Polish affair must have occasioned him in a brilliantly successful
reappearance in command of a French army. On the outbreak of the
Devolution War in 1667, the command of the forces which invaded the
Spanish Netherlands was given to Turenne, and his great rival was left
to languish in inaction at Chantilly. Without allowing himself to be
discouraged, Condé secretly applied himself to drawing up a plan for
the conquest of Franche-Comté. This plan he submitted to Louvois, the
Minister for War, who persuaded the King to approve it, and to entrust
its execution to the prince himself. On 4 February, 1668, Condé crossed
the frontier, and so skilfully had his measures been taken and so rapid
were his movements, that in little more than a fortnight the whole
province was at his feet. Louis XIV. immediately gave to the prince
the government of the conquered territory; but the Triple Alliance
between England, Sweden and Holland was already forming, and the King
was soon obliged to consent to peace, retaining his conquests in the
Netherlands, but restoring Franche-Comté to Spain.
The Princesse de Condé had figured at the marriage of her son and at
the subsequent festivities, but, after the young couple had established
themselves at Chantilly, where a portion of the château had been
placed at their disposal, she gradually disappeared from the Court and
Society, and was never seen except at great official functions, where
her rank necessitated her presence. Often she was ill and invisible
for months at a time, and Condé and Enghien appeared very embarrassed
when people inquired after the princess’s health, and hastened to
change the subject. A few notes preserved in the archives of Chantilly
serve to explain what seems to have remained an enigma, even to the
best-informed of contemporary chroniclers. In the autumn of 1664, we
find Condé writing to his secretary Caillet as follows:
“Make yourself acquainted with everything that my wife does at
Saint-Maur; inform me of everything that she does or says, and whether
she still persists in her transports (_emportements_).... M.
Perrault writes me that she spoke to him with moderation. I am a
little dubious about that, for I hear from others that she is anything
but moderate.... Endeavour, at any rate, to discover what has become of
Duval, and if my wife has not seen him at Saint-Maur.... I will inform
you of what will have to be done in this matter. Show my letter to the
Abbé Roquette and to Père Bergier (the two spiritual directors of the
family).”[209]
From these letters, it is very evident that _Madame la Princesse’s_
mind was affected, a fact which is not surprising, when we consider
that her mother, Nicole du Plessis, had always been eccentric, and,
in her later years, quite insane; that her father had been noted for
his morose disposition and violent temper, and that she herself had
passed through so many agitations, hardships, and deceptions. It is,
indeed, sad to reflect that the reason of this truly noble woman, who
in war and exile had shown such admirable courage and fortitude, should
have given way at the very moment when she should have been enjoying
the repose and happiness which she had so well earned. For this
calamity the neglect and indifference of her ungrateful husband and her
unnatural son were undoubtedly largely responsible.
Abandoned by those who should have lavished upon her the most tender
care, the unhappy Claire-Clémence became the prey of greedy and
unscrupulous attendants. The man Duval mentioned by Condé in one of
his letters to Caillet was a footman of the princess, a person of some
education and “_de bonne conversation_,” to whom the lonely woman
had attached herself. She gave him expensive presents and promised him
a pension; and Condé, warned of the influence which he was beginning to
exercise over his wife, insisted on her dismissing him from her service.
The dismissal of the only person who appeared to feel for her any
sympathy aggravated for a time the malady of Claire-Clémence, and was
no doubt the cause of the “_emportements_” of which her husband
speaks. But they do not appear to have lasted long, and by Holy Week
1665, she was sufficiently recovered to assist at the ceremonies of
the Lord’s Supper, when the Queen, in accordance with ancient custom,
served at table twelve poor women, whose feet she washed. The Princesse
de Condé, aided by Mlle. d’Alençon and the Princess of Baden, carried
the dishes to her Majesty.
During the next six years, Claire-Clémence continued to lead the
same secluded life, emerging now and again from her retirement to
assist at some Court ceremony, such as the baptism of the Dauphin
at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, on which occasion she was one of the
princesses to whom fell the duty of dressing the infant prince. After
this brilliant ceremony, however, the appearances of the princess in
public became so rare that people appear to have almost forgotten her
existence, when, at the beginning of 1671, a mysterious affair, which
was to complete the ruin of her life, came to make her, for a moment,
the talk of both Court and town.
About two o’clock in the afternoon of 13 January, Claire-Clémence,
having just dined, was alone in her apartments at the Hôtel de Condé,
when the door opened, and her former favourite, the dismissed footman,
Duval, entered the room unannounced. The ease with which he had
succeeded in making his way to the princess’s apartments is explained
by the fact that at this hour of the day all the servants were at
dinner, and that there was no one at hand to inquire his business.
Duval had come to demand money--the arrears of the pension which the
princess had promised him, but which, owing to the unsatisfactory state
of her finances, had only been paid very irregularly. On being told
that it was impossible to comply with his request at once, he became
very insolent and spoke in so loud a tone that a young musketeer, the
Comte Jean Louis de Bussy-Rabutin, formerly page to the Princesse
de Condé, who had just entered the ante-chamber, opened the door to
see what was the matter. Rabutin, after asking the impudent rascal
how he dared to address her Highness in such a manner, ordered him
to leave the house immediately; Duval angrily refused, and both drew
their swords and rushed upon each other. The princess endeavoured to
separate them, and received a wound “above the right breast,”[210]
which, though not dangerous, bled profusely. She fell to the ground in
a swoon; the servants, attracted by the noise, came rushing in, and the
combatants, profiting by the confusion, succeeded in effecting their
escape, though not before they had both been recognized.
Such was the version which spread in Paris and was generally accepted,
until the singular attitude of Condé piqued the curiosity of the public
and invested the affair with an atmosphere of mystery and scandal. The
prince, who had long sought an occasion for disembarrassing himself of
a wife whom he had never loved, and who was no longer able to be of use
to him, did not hesitate a moment to place the very worst construction
upon what had occurred. Although suffering cruelly from the gout, he
at once ordered his coach and set out for Paris, and, refusing even
to see his wife, demanded of the King the punishment of a crime of
_lèse-majesté_ and a _lettre de cachet_ against the princess.
Louis XIV., who had been himself so far from conceiving any suspicions
that he had already paid a personal visit to the injured lady, refused
at first to accede to the latter request, and Condé returned to
Chantilly in a very bad temper.
However, he was not the kind of person to be easily discouraged, and
on 15 January, in the presence of the captain of his guards and the
curé of Chantilly, he drew up and signed a document authorizing the
Princesse de Condé to make a donation of her property to her son,
the Duc d’Enghien. At the same time, he caused a deed to be prepared
which stated that the princess, “on account of the tenderness and
affection which she had always had for the person of the very high,
very excellent and puissant prince Monseigneur Henri Jules de Bourbon,
Duc d’Enghien, her son, Prince of the Blood, peer and Grand Master of
France, etc., etc., and to recognize the great respect and obedience
which he had always had for her, made a donation to him of all her
movable property, furniture, titles, actions, immovables, pretensions,
in whatsoever place they might be situated, reserving, nevertheless,
the enjoyment by usufruct of all her said goods, during her lifetime,
to dispose of them as might seem good to her.”[211]
The same day, the Duc d’Enghien, accompanied by two notaries,
proceeded to the Hôtel de Condé, informed his mother of the wishes of
_Monsieur le Prince_, and presented the deed for her signature.
The unfortunate princess signed without demur this kind of anticipated
will, in which it seemed that her husband desired to cut her off from
the world of the living. She was no doubt under the impression that her
compliance might suffice to appease the conjugal wrath, and did not
appear to understand that it was tantamount to a confession that she
was no longer responsible for her actions.
As the Duc d’Aumale observes, this deed had not the character of a
spoliation, since the usufruct was respected and the free disposition
of the princess’s jewels and plate assured. Yet, when viewed in the
light of what followed, it had an odious appearance, and nothing in
this sad affair has more disposed public opinion against Condé and his
son.
Meanwhile, an active search had been made for the culprits. Duval was
discovered at the house of a canon of the Sainte-Chapelle, whom he
had persuaded to give him shelter, and conducted, with his hands tied
behind his back, to the prison of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Rabutin
was more fortunate. After lying hidden for a week at the Hôtel des
Mousquetaires, he succeeded in effecting his escape to Germany, where
he married a lady of royal blood, the Princess Dorothea of Holstein,
and rose to high rank in the Imperial service.
As the crime with which Duval was charged was that of having attempted
the life of a Princess of the Blood, he was tried by the Grande Chambre
and the Tournelle, sitting together. The evidence of Claire-Clémence,
taken on commission on 17 January, proved most unfortunate for her,
since, from a generous but mistaken desire to shield two men who had
been in her service--Rabutin had not yet succeeded in effecting his
escape from Paris, and the police were hunting for him high and
low--she professed entire ignorance of the cause of the affray. Duval,
she declared, had come to ask for money, of which he explained that he
was in great need, and she had promised to give it to him in two or
three days. (It will be observed that she said nothing about the loud
and insolent tone in which he had demanded it, and which had been the
cause of Rabutin’s appearance upon the scene.) _After he had left
her_, she had heard a commotion in the ante-chamber adjoining her
salon, and, going out to see what was the matter, had received a wound
in the breast, from which she immediately lost consciousness, without
having recognized the persons who were fighting.
Duval was three times interrogated. On the first two occasions he
stoutly denied that he was in any way culpable, but on the third he
confessed, and admitted that it was he who had wounded the princess.
In view of the latter’s reticence, however, the Court regarded these
admissions with considerable suspicion, and, being of opinion that the
charge was not fully proved, instead of condemning him to death, merely
sentenced him to the galleys.
The result of the proceedings against Duval, joined to the singular
attitude of _Monsieur le Prince_, gave to the affair, in the
opinion of a considerable section of the public, a new complexion; and
it was now freely asserted that the two men who had drawn upon each
other in the princess’s presence had been rivals in her affections.
Such was the view taken by Madame de Sévigné, who, in a letter to her
cousin Bussy,[212] thus expresses herself:
“I have just been told of an extraordinary adventure which occurred at
the Hôtel de Condé, and which deserves to be related to you. Here it
is: _Madame la Princesse_ having conceived an affection for one
of her footmen named Duval, the latter was foolish enough to suffer
impatiently the good-will which she likewise testified for the young
Rabutin, who had been her page. One day, when they both happened to be
in her chamber, Duval having said something that was wanting in respect
to the princess, Rabutin drew his sword to chastise him. Duval drew his
also, and the princess, throwing herself between them to separate them,
was wounded in the breast. Duval has been arrested, and Rabutin has
taken to flight. However honourable the subject of the quarrel may be,
I like not the name of a footman coupled with that of Rabutin.”[213]
To which her scandal-loving correspondent replies:
“Our cousin’s adventure is neither beautiful nor ugly; the mistress
does him honour, and the rival shame.”
At the same time, most of her contemporaries refused to believe that
the sweet and unfortunate Claire-Clémence had been seriously culpable,
and, though several of Condé’s biographers, to efface a stain on the
escutcheon of their hero, have not hesitated to reproduce this calumny,
others, such as Louis Joseph de Bourbon and Earl Stanhope, are of a
different opinion, and blame severely the conduct of the prince.[214]
“How is it possible,” asks the latter, “to think that the suspicion
of the prince was well founded? How can we believe that a princess
married nearly thirty years, and, up to this time, entirely free from
the slightest imputation--always held sacred by calumny, which spares
so few, ever irreproachable in the midst of a most corrupt Court--could
have waited till the age when passions have subsided to indulge them?
How reconcile such irregularities with that exalted piety which she had
practised from her youth upwards? How can we, without any proof, admit
such accusations against the woman who had always devoted herself so
courageously and constantly to the service of a husband who slighted
her? Against the heroine of Montrond and Bordeaux; against Clémence de
Maillé? And again, what accusations? Not only of an illicit attachment,
but the shameless sharing of her favours between two of her own
domestics!”[215]
Condé, who had never scrupled to jeer at the conjugal misfortunes of
others, now, in his turn, became an object of ridicule. Chansons and
epigrams at his expense began to circulate in Paris, and served to
exasperate him still further against his wife. In the first days of
February, he again demanded of the King a _lettre de cachet_, and
this time Louis XIV. did not refuse, and signed an order which exiled
the princess to the Château of Châteauroux, in Berry. No time was lost
in executing it, and as soon as the doctors pronounced her able to
stand the fatigue of the journey, she left Paris.
On the day of her departure, she sent for the curé of Saint-Sulpice,
with whom she had a long conversation. “Monsieur,” said she, as she
bade him farewell, “this is the last time that you will speak to me,
since I shall never return from the place to which the King is sending
me. But the confession which I now make to you will proclaim my
innocence for ever.” Her parting from her son was heartrending, and,
after embracing him again and again, she swooned away in his arms. As
soon as she recovered, the carriage started for Châteauroux.
The château which Condé had selected as his wife’s prison, and where
she was destined to remain for the rest of her days, stands upon a
hill on the left bank of the Indre, and commands a magnificent view
of the surrounding country. It was built by Raoul _le Large_,
seigneur de Déols, about the middle of the tenth century,[216] an age
when security was naturally the primary consideration, and, though its
sombre appearance had been a good deal modified from time to time, it
was still far from a cheerful habitation.
The princess was followed thither by her whole Household: _dame
d’honneur_, _chevalier d’honneur_, equerry, almoner, physician,
apothecary, comptroller, waiting-women, chef, scullions, coachmen and
footmen; and an allowance of 50,000 livres a year was made her for
the maintenance of this establishment. She was permitted to walk in
the grounds of the château, and even to take carriage exercise in the
vicinity, but always very carefully watched and guarded; while no
stranger was under any pretext allowed to approach her. Apart from
these restrictions, she was treated, at any rate at first, with all the
consideration and respect due to her exalted rank, and her captivity
was not of the harsh and brutal character with which some writers have
invested it.
Nevertheless, the isolation to which she was subjected, the deadly
monotony of her existence in this gloomy fortress, soon began to
have its effect upon her already tottering reason. Her disorder took
the form of terror. From incessant brooding over her wrongs, the
husband who had repaid her unselfish devotion with such harshness
and ingratitude became, in moments of hallucination, a monster who,
not content with burying her alive, was resolved to rid himself of
her altogether, and frequently she refused to touch dishes that were
offered her, from fear lest they should contain poison.
In 1675, in consequence of some rumours which had reached her that her
sister-in-law was being ill-treated by those to whose care she had
been entrusted, Madame de Longueville, more compassionate than the
rest of her family, requested Père Tixier, a Benedictine monk in whom
she had every confidence, to proceed to Châteauroux and ascertain if
there were any justification for these reports. The monk, however,
before undertaking this mission, considered it advisable to inquire if
it would be agreeable to _Monsieur le Prince_, who was likewise
a valued patron of his. Condé raised no objection. “You will go to
Châteauroux,” said he, “since my sister wishes it, and will see whether
_Madame la Princesse_ has everything she requires; for, such as
she is, she is my wife, and I do not wish her to want for anything. But
do not speak of me to her at all, you understand.”
On his arrival at Châteauroux, Père Tixier was presented to the
princess, who was about to sit down to dinner. “Father,” said she, “you
belong to _Monsieur le Prince_, who sends you to see me.” “No,
Madame,” replied the good man, “I am a monk, and the monks belong to
God.” “Oh!” rejoined the princess, “I understand;” and she declared her
conviction that Condé had sent him to confess her, because he intended
to have her made away with. Tixier endeavoured to reassure her, and
the officer whom Condé had placed in charge of his wife, and “who I
saw clearly,” says the monk, “treated her very roughly,” exclaimed:
“_Morbleu!_ Madame, at your usual fables again! Will you never be
sensible?”
Dinner was served, and, after the soup, a dish of cod was brought
in. The princess partook of it with relish, and asked for a second
helping. The dish, however, had just been removed, and, when it was
brought back, she declined to touch it, saying that it had been to
the kitchen and that there had been sufficient time to mix with it
some fatal ingredient. The officer remonstrated. “But,” said he, “does
not everything that is served you, Madame, come from the kitchen?”
Nevertheless, the unfortunate woman refused to listen to reason.
The princess, having at length been persuaded by Père Tixier that he
had merely come, at Madame de Longueville’s request, to inquire as
to her welfare, begged him to convey her most grateful thanks to her
sister-in-law. For her husband, she had no message and spoke of him
with aversion. “_Monsieur le Prince_,” said she, “greatly despised
me, but I greatly despised him also.”[217]