Termination of Condé’s military career--His retirement at
Chantilly--His improvements of the château and estate--His
son, the Duc d’Enghien (_Monsieur le Duc_)--Portrait of
this prince by Saint-Simon--His tyrannical treatment of his
wife--His singular habits--Malicious practical joke which he
perpetrates on the Duc de Luxembourg--His amours with the
Duchesse de Nevers, the Marquise de Richelieu, and the Comtesse
de Marans--His natural daughter by Madame de Marans legitimated
and married to the Marquis de Lassay--His lack of military
capacity--His children--The education of his only son, the
Duc de Bourbon, superintended by Condé--Marriage of the young
prince to Mlle. de Nantes, elder daughter of Louis XIV. and
Madame de Montespan--The wedding-night--Conversion of Condé--His
last illness--His death--His funeral oration by Bossuet--The
Princesse de Condé remains in captivity--Her death.
_Monsieur le Prince_ probably troubled himself very little about
his unhappy wife’s feelings towards him. Having brought his military
career to a triumphant close by restoring the fortunes of France in
Alsace and driving the Imperialists across the Rhine, he had retired
definitely to Chantilly, to spend the remaining years of his life in as
much peace as his implacable enemy, gout, would permit.
In this delightful spot, his leisure was cheered by the society of all
the celebrities of his time. There were to be met warriors, statesmen
and ambassadors, divines and philosophers, poets, painters, scientists
and wits. No general set out to join his army without coming to take
leave of the great captain and discuss with him his plan of campaign;
no distinguished foreigner visited Paris without paying homage at
Chantilly; no author of repute published a book without sending a copy
to the prince who was “thought the best judge in France both of wit and
learning.”[218]
And so he grew old, honoured and adulated by all:
“Tranquille et glorieux
Il vit à Chantilly comme on vit dans les cieux.”[219]
Condé had a natural taste for gardening--even during his imprisonment
at Vincennes he had amused himself by cultivating carnations--and his
greatest pleasure in his declining years was to embellish the retreat
which he had chosen for himself. In 1662, he had begun the enlargement
of the park, and, under the direction of the celebrated gardener Le
Nôtre, parterres were traced around the château, long alleys, bordered
by trim hedges, stretching away into the forest began to make their
appearance, and trees, shrubs, and rare plants were gathered from all
quarters. But want of money imposed prudence, and it was not until some
years later, when _Monsieur le Prince’s_ finances were once more
in a satisfactory condition, that the work took a wide scope. Then it
was that Gitard constructed the grand staircase; that Mansart built the
Orangerie, and commenced the Ménagerie; that the aqueduct which brought
to Chantilly the water of the fountain of the Hôtel-Dieu-des-Marais
was made; that the parterres were completed and new avenues pierced
in all directions; that the fountains which “were silent neither day
nor night”[220] were erected, and that Chantilly began to assume the
appearance which it was to retain until the Revolution.
Condé, however, had another and more important occupation in his
retirement than the embellishment of Chantilly.
One of the greatest disappointments of the prince’s life was his only
son, the Duc d’Enghien, to whom, as we have mentioned, he was most
tenderly attached. As a child, _Monsieur le Duc_--to give him his
official designation--had been charming, but this early promise had
unhappily not been fulfilled, either in appearance or in character;
while, though he undoubtedly possessed great abilities, he was quite
incapable of employing them to any useful purpose. Saint-Simon has
drawn of him one of his most arresting portraits:
[Illustration: HENRI JULES DE BOURBON, DUC D’ENGHIEN (AFTERWARDS
PRINCE DE CONDÉ)
FROM AN ENGRAVING BY N. POILLY, AFTER THE PAINTING BY MIGNARD]
“He was a little man, very thin and slenderly made, whose
countenance, though somewhat mean, was still imposing from the fire
and intelligence of his eyes; while his nature was a compound as rare
as could be met with. No man was ever endowed with a keener or more
varied intelligence, which extended even to the arts and mechanics,
and was joined to an exquisite taste. No man had a more frank or more
natural courage, or a greater desire to shine; and, when he wished to
please, he did so with so much tact, grace, and charm that it seemed
spontaneous. Neither was any man more accomplished in invention and
execution, in the pleasures of life, in the magnificence of fêtes, by
which he often astonished and delighted in every conceivable way. But,
then, no man had ever before so many useless talents, so much futile
genius, or so lively and active an imagination, solely employed to be
his own curse and the scourge of others. Abjectly and basely servile,
even to lackeys, he scrupled not to use the lowest and paltriest means
to gain his ends. Unnatural son (to his mother), cruel father, terrible
husband, detestable master, pernicious neighbour; without friendship,
without friends--incapable of having any--jealous, suspicious, ever
restless, full of artifices to discover everything and to scrutinize
all (in which he was unceasingly occupied, aided by an extreme
vivacity and a surprising penetration); choleric and headstrong to
excess, even over trifles, never in accord with himself and keeping
all about him in a tremble, he caused the unhappiness of every one
who had any connection with him. To conclude, impetuosity and avarice
were his masters, which monopolized him always. With all this, he was
a difficult man to resist, when he brought into play the pleasing
qualities he possessed.”
To his unfortunate wife, Anne of Bavaria, he was a veritable tyrant.
She was ugly, virtuous, and stupid, a little deformed, and not very
clean in her person; but this did not hinder him from being furiously
jealous till the end of his life. Nor were her piety, the unwearying
attentions she lavished upon him, her gentleness, and her novice-like
submission able to protect her from frequent insults, and even from
blows and kicks. The poor woman was hardly allowed to call her soul
her own. “She was not mistress even of the most trifling things; she
did not dare to propose or to ask anything. He would make her start
on a journey the moment the fancy took him, and often, as soon as she
was seated in the carriage, he would make her descend again, or return
from the end of the street, and recommence the journey after dinner or
the next day. Once this kind of thing lasted for fifteen days running,
before a journey to Fontainebleau. At other times, he would summon her
from church, and make her leave High Mass, and sometimes would even
send for her when she was on the point of receiving the Communion; and
she would be obliged to return on the instant and defer her Communion
until another occasion. This he did, not because he wanted her, but
merely to gratify his whim.”
He was always uncertain in his movements, and had four dinners prepared
for him every day: one in Paris, a second at Écouen, a third at
Chantilly, and a fourth wherever the Court might be at the moment. But
the expense of this arrangement was not so great as might be supposed,
for the _menu_ consisted merely of soup and half a chicken
roasted upon a _croûton_ of bread, the other half serving for the
following day. He rarely invited any one to dine with him, but, when he
did, no one could be more courteous or more attentive to his guests.
He delighted in practical jokes, generally of an extremely malicious
kind, of which the following will serve as an example:
[Illustration: DIANE GABRIELLE DE THIANGES, DUCHESSE DE NEVERS]
The Duc de Luxembourg,[221] son of the celebrated marshal, had a young
and pretty wife,[222] who suffered, like a good many other ladies
about the Court, from excessive sensibility, a fact which was “known
to everybody in France except her husband.” On the occasion of a
visit of the Court to Marly, both M. de Luxembourg and his consort
were invited to take part in a masquerade. _Monsieur le Duc_
undertook to provide the former with what he declared to be a highly
original costume, and, since he enjoyed the reputation of being a
great authority on such matters, his offer was gladly accepted.
Thereupon the malicious prince proceeded to array his unconscious
victim in various fantastic garments, which he crowned with a gigantic
pair of antlers, which almost touched the candelabra. Thus attired, he
was conducted into the ballroom, where, by a sudden shifting of his
mask, his identity was quickly revealed. When the company perceived
who it was who was thus parading the emblem of a deceived husband, a
great shout of laughter rang through the room, which redoubled when
the luckless Luxembourg, mistaking the hilarity which his appearance
aroused for a tribute to the originality of his costume, bowed
repeatedly.
In his youth, _Monsieur le Duc_, like most of his family, was very
much addicted to gallantry. When his affections were engaged, nothing
cost too much, and “he made some amends for a shape which resembled a
gnome rather than a man.”[223] “He was grace, magnificence, gallantry
personified--a Jupiter transformed into a shower of gold. Now, he
disguised himself as a lackey; another time, as a female vendor of
articles for the toilette; anon, in some other fashion. He was the most
ingenious man in the world.”[224]
Among the great ladies who smiled upon him was the lovely and
fascinating Gabrielle de Thianges, who became, in 1670, the wife of the
Duc de Nevers, the brother of the famous Mancini sisters.[225] “Few
women,” says Saint-Simon, “have surpassed her in beauty. Hers was of
every kind, with a singularity which charmed.” And he declares that
when she died, at the age of sixty, she was “still perfectly beautiful.”
If we are to believe Madame de Caylus, the duchess, after the fall of
her aunt, Madame de Montespan, had, at that lady’s suggestion, made an
attempt to capture the affections of the King, “in order to keep the
royal favour in the family,” and that it was only upon the failure of
this intrigue that she resolved to content herself with _Monsieur
le Duc_. But, whatever may have been the lady’s feelings towards
him, _Monsieur le Duc_ was desperately enamoured of her, and the
fertility of resource which he displayed and the sums he appears to
have expended in order to enjoy her society were really astonishing.
Voltaire asserts, in a note to the first edition of the _Souvenirs_
of Madame de Caylus, that, for the purpose of entering secretly into
the apartment of the duchess, he had bought the two houses on either
side of the Hôtel de Nevers. Saint-Simon goes much further and says
that, to conceal their rendezvous, “he rented all the houses on one
side of a street near Saint-Sulpice, furnished them, and pierced the
connecting walls.” If we are to believe this anecdote, the Maréchal
de Richelieu must have been but a feeble plagiarist when, many years
later, he adopted a similar means of entrance into the Palais-Royal
and the Hôtel de la Popelinière.[226] But since Saint-Sulpice, though
close to the Hôtel de Condé, was a long way from the Hôtel de Nevers,
we must confess that we do not quite see how such operations were to
bring _Monsieur le Duc_ to the side of his beloved. Perhaps, however,
Saint-Simon intends us to understand that, in order not to excite the
least suspicion, the prince was in the habit of entering a house at
one end of the street, and the lady one at the other extremity, and of
meeting in the middle. Any way, it seems rather a tall story, even for
Saint-Simon.
Despite so many precautions, the Duc de Nevers scented treason, and
resolved to escape it by the procedure which he usually adopted in such
circumstances, namely, by carrying his wife off to Rome.[227] “M. de
Nevers,” writes Madame de Caylus, “was in the habit of setting off for
Rome in the same way as any one else would go out to supper; and Madame
de Nevers had been known to enter her carriage in the persuasion that
she was only going for a drive, and then to hear her husband say to
the coachman: “To Rome.” In time, however, the lady began to know her
husband better and to be more on her guard against him, and happening
to discover his intention of taking her upon another of these sudden
journeys, she promptly warned her lover and begged him to devise some
means of averting, or, at any rate, of postponing, their threatened
separation.
Now, the Duc de Nevers, like all the Mancini, had a very pretty turn
for verse-making, of which he was inordinately vain, and nothing
delighted him more than to hear his poetical effusions recited before
an appreciative audience. Aware of this little weakness, _Monsieur le
Duc_ resolved to lay a trap for him, into which he felt convinced he
could not fail to fall. But let us listen to Madame de Caylus:
“_Monsieur le Prince_,[228] equally fertile of invention as
reckless of expense whenever his tastes or passions were concerned,
judged, from the knowledge he possessed of the character of M. de
Nevers, that he might easily divert him from his intended expedition,
by affording him an opportunity of employing his talent and exercising
his passion for making verses. He proposed, therefore, to give a fête
to _Monseigneur_[229] at Chantilly. The invitation was given
and accepted, when he hastened to M. de Nevers, informed him of the
entertainment, and, pretending that he was in a great difficulty about
the choice of a poet to write the words of the _divertissement_,
begged him, as a favour, to find him one. Upon which M. de Nevers
offered himself, just as _Monsieur le Duc_ had foreseen. To
conclude, the fête took place--it cost more than one hundred thousand
crowns--and Madame de Nevers did not go to Rome.”
Thus Madame de Caylus. But Saint-Simon gives another version of this
story, according to which the laugh, at the last, was on the side of M.
de Nevers:
“The Duc de Nevers, all jealous, all Italian, all full of intelligence
that he was, had never conceived the least suspicion of this fête,
although he was not ignorant of the love of _Monsieur le Prince_
for his wife. However, five days before it took place, he ascertained
the reason why it was being given. He said not a word about it,
but started for Rome the very next day with his wife, and remained
there for a long time; and, in his turn, scoffed at _Monsieur le
Prince_.”
Another _grande dame_ whom the duke honoured by his attentions
was the Marquise de Richelieu,[230] a lady whom Saint-Simon mentions,
“because she is not worth the trouble of being silent about.” According
to the same chronicler, he fell madly in love with this siren,
and “spent millions upon her, and to keep himself informed of her
movements.” One fine day, he discovered, to his profound indignation,
that he had a successful rival in the person of the Comte de Roucy. He
reproached the marchioness bitterly with her treachery, and, though
she assured him that she had been cruelly maligned, he had her so
closely watched that very soon the charge was brought home to her
beyond any possibility of denial. In vain, did the culprit entreat his
forgiveness; in vain, did she swear by all that she held sacred that
Roucy’s love was as nothing to her in comparison with his, and that
she would never see him again. The infuriated prince refused to be
placated and turned to leave her. Then the fear of losing so prodigal a
lover “suggested to the marchioness an excellent expedient for setting
his mind at rest.” She proposed to give Roucy a rendezvous at her
house, and that some of _Monsieur le Duc’s_ people should lie in
wait; and, when the count appeared, make away with him. But, instead
of the success she appears to have expected from this very Italian
proposal,[231] the prince was so horrified that he immediately sent to
warn Roucy, and never saw Madame de Richelieu again.
A third inamorata of _Monsieur le Duc_, of whom we should have
perhaps spoken before, since she was one of the loves of his youth,
whereas his _liaisons_ with the Duchesse de Nevers and the
Marquise de Richelieu belong to his riper years, was the widowed
Comtesse de Marans, often mentioned in the letters of Madame de
Sévigné, who speaks of her with unusual bitterness, owing, it is
believed, to some disparaging remark which she had once let fall
concerning the writer’s beloved daughter, Madame de Grignan. The
countess was an extremely pretty woman, but the most inconsequent and
extravagant creature in the world. According to Madame de Sévigné, she
had been heard to declare that she would rather die than surrender
herself to a man whom she loved; but, if a man loved her and she did
not find him altogether odious, she would be willing to yield. Whether
or no she loved _Monsieur le Duc_, she surrendered herself to
him, and, in 1668, presented him with a daughter. The girl was at
first known as Mlle. de Guenani, which is the anagram of her father’s
duchy of Anguien (the old orthography of Enghien). But, in 1692,
she was legitimated, and took the name of Julie de Condé, Mlle. de
Châteaubriant. Brought up at first at Maubuisson, she was later sent
to the Abbaye-aux-Bois, from which retreat, however, she occasionally
emerged to pay visits to her relatives at Chantilly or Saint-Maur.
At this time, there seems to have been some idea of her taking the
veil, but she was so pretty, intelligent, and amusing, that it was
eventually decided that she should remain in the world, and, in 1696,
she married the Marquis de Lassay, a middle-aged widower, celebrated
for his amorous adventures, who had been for some time past desperately
in love with her. The bride received a dowry of 100,000 livres, as
well as 20,000 livres for the expenses of her trousseau; while Lassay
was appointed the King’s lieutenant in the Bresse. It is to be feared,
however, that the amorous marquis had reason to regret his bargain,
for, if gossip does not lie, before she had been married a week, the
lady had provided herself with a lover.
Many and grave as were the faults of _Monsieur le Duc_, it
is probable that Condé would have suffered them with comparative
equanimity if his son had inherited in any degree his own genius for
war. But, singularly enough, with all the intelligence and quickness
of perception which he displayed in other directions, Enghien never
showed the smallest aptitude for his father’s profession. “So great a
warrior as _Monsieur le Prince_,” writes Saint-Simon, “was never
able to make his son understand the first principles of the art of war.
He made this teaching for a long time the principal object of his care
and study. His son tried to do the same, but was never able to acquire
the slightest aptitude for any portion of the art, although his father
concealed nothing from him, and was constantly explaining all that
relates to it at the head of his army. He always took him with him, and
endeavoured to give him a command near himself, of course, in order
to counsel him. This plan of instruction succeeded no better than the
others. Finally, he despaired of his son, gifted though he was with
such great talents, and ceased his endeavours, with what grief may be
imagined.”
In fairness to _Monsieur le Duc_, however, it should be mentioned
that, if he had inherited none of his father’s military genius, he
had at least inherited his valour, and, on more than one occasion,
he displayed conspicuous courage. Thus, at the sanguinary battle of
Seneffe (11 August, 1674), when Condé’s horse had been killed under
him, and the prince had been thrown with great violence to the ground,
Enghien threw himself before him, and was himself wounded in assisting
him to rise.
Of nine children whom Anne of Bavaria had borne the Duc d’Enghien, four
daughters and a son had survived.[232] The boy, Louis, Duc de Bourbon,
was in his eighth year when Condé retired definitely to Chantilly, and
_Monsieur le Prince_, in the hope of developing in the son the
qualities which he had not found in the father, and of perhaps living
to see him rise up and continue the glorious traditions of the family,
desired to direct his education himself. _Monsieur le Duc_,
whose time was fully occupied by his duties at the Court, and who
still retained his former habits of submission to his father’s will,
consented; and Condé decided to have his grandson educated on the same
system which had proved so successful in his own case. Established at
the Petit-Luxembourg, with his _gouverneur_ Deschamps,[233] his
tutors the Jesuit Fathers Alleaume et du Rosel, and one of _Monsieur
le Prince’s_ equerries, Le Bouchet, who directed his physical
exercises, the young duke attended the courses of the Collège de
Clermont, passing his vacations at Chantilly, whither his tutors always
accompanied him.
All the masters and professors under whom the boy studied were
vigorously seconded by Condé, who maintained with them an almost daily
correspondence, while he was continually exhorting his grandson to
apply himself to his studies. The Duc de Bourbon, however, though
he was not without ability, was incurably indolent, and, despite
all the efforts of his teachers and the reprimands of _Monsieur
le Prince_, his progress both at the Collège de Clermont and at
Louis-le-Grand, to which he was transferred when he was fourteen,
was most disappointing. It was evident that Condé had not taken into
sufficient consideration the great difference in temperament between
himself and his grandson, and that a system which had produced such
splendid results in his own case was quite unsuited to this idle,
pleasure-loving lad.
The duke was accordingly removed from college, and, on the advice of
Bossuet, Condé decided to keep him under his own eye at Chantilly,
and to entrust the rest of his education to La Bruyère and the
distinguished mathematician Sauveur. This plan worked excellently for
some months, and _Monsieur le Prince_ was full of hope; but,
unfortunately, the Duc d’Enghien, to whom the possession of the royal
favour was of infinitely more importance than anything else in the
world, considered that the time had now arrived to bring his son to
the notice of the King and initiate him into his duties as a courtier,
and desired that he should pay occasional visits to Versailles. These
visits, which, on some pretext or other, were frequently prolonged far
beyond the limit which Condé had fixed, naturally did not make for
the young gentleman’s progress in his studies, for, though his tutors
always accompanied him, he soon became so absorbed in the pleasures of
the Court that they thought themselves fortunate if they could obtain
from him an occasional hour of distracted attention. La Bruyère was in
despair and appealed to _Monsieur le Prince_, who remonstrated
vigorously with Enghien. “Your son,” he writes, “will become a very
good huntsman, but ignorant of everything that he ought to know. It is
for you to remedy it, and to think of his life, his health, and his
good education. I beg you to consider it, and not to wait to remedy it
until it is too late.”
Condé and Enghien were, however, at cross-purposes; the one wished to
form a man, a prince, a captain; the other thought only of making his
son an accomplished courtier. That the hope of the Condés should be an
invariable guest at Marly was in the latter’s eyes a more desirable
thing than that he should command armies; that he should secure the
reversion of the governments and offices which had been bestowed upon
his father was of more importance than that he should inherit his
grandsire’s fame.
It must be admitted that Enghien was indefatigable in his endeavours
to further what he conceived to be the interests of his son. “With
the prudence and calculation of an officer experienced in sieges,
he pursued his plan, seeking to take possession of all the avenues
which could conduct him to the heart of the King; hunting and
shooting-parties, masquerades, ballets, fêtes at Marly, served him as
approach-works; a direct attack that he was preparing could not fail to
assure for his son the royal favour.”[234]
This “direct attack,” which was delivered in June, 1684, on the
occasion of the visit which Louis XIV. paid to Chantilly, on his return
from the siege of Luxembourg, took the form of demanding for the
Duc de Bourbon the hand of Mlle. de Nantes, the elder of the King’s
two surviving daughters by Madame de Montespan, who had celebrated
her eleventh birthday a few days previously. To the intense joy of
_Monsieur le Duc_, it was completely successful, and his Majesty
graciously consented to bestow the hand of his legitimated daughter on
the heir of the Condés. Owing, however, to the tender age of the young
lady, the arrangement remained a secret for some months, and it was not
until the following April that it was made public.
This was not the first alliance between the fruit of _le Grand
Monarques_ amours and the Princes of the Blood. In January, 1684,
Condé’s nephew and ward the young Prince de Conti[235] had espoused
Louise de la Vallière’s daughter, Mlle. de Blois, on which occasion,
we learn from Madame de Sévigné that _Monsieur le Prince_, who
had always clung to the bygone fashion of moustaches and a chin-tuft,
astonished the Court by appearing clean-shaven, with his hair
curled and powdered, and a _justaucorps_ adorned with diamond
buttons.[236] But, although Condé approved of the marriage arranged for
his grandson, he was far from approving of the latter interrupting his
studies to take upon himself conjugal responsibilities. However, such
was the _Monsieur le Duc’s_ impatience to see the young prince
become the son-in-law of the King that he ultimately withdrew his
objections, and Louis XIV. having also proved complaisant, the marriage
was celebrated, in the chapel at Versailles, on 24 July, 1685.
So far as people were able to judge from features which were hardly yet
formed, the twelve-year-old bride gave promise of being very pretty;
and this promise was duly fulfilled. As much could not be said for the
bridegroom. Both the Duc and Duchesse d’Enghien were short, though of
no unusual diminutiveness, but their son was almost a dwarf,[237] and
a very ugly one to boot, with an abnormally large head, an unwholesome
complexion, and a surly expression.
The union of these two marionettes, as the Marquis de Sourches calls
them, was celebrated with extreme magnificence, and “the Great Condé
and his son left nothing undone to testify their joy, just as they had
left nothing undone to bring about the marriage.”[238] The King secured
to the duke the reversion of all the offices held by his father and
gave him a pension of 90,000 livres, and to his daughter one of 100,000
livres.
In the evening, the happy pair proceeded to the pretended consummation
of their marriage, without which the ceremony through which they had
just passed would not have been considered binding. In the presence
of the King and all their relatives, they entered a state bed, where
they remained for half an hour, the Duchesse d’Enghien standing by the
bridegroom’s side, and Madame de Montespan by that of the bride. This
solemn farce terminated, they separated, not to meet again for several
months, except in the presence of witnesses; and the Duc de Bourbon
went back to his interrupted studies, which _Monsieur le Prince_
had insisted on his continuing.
[Illustration: LOUIS III, DUC DE BOURBON, PRINCE DE CONDÉ (CALLED
MONSIEUR LE DUC)
FROM A CONTEMPORARY PRINT]
The year which saw the marriage of the Duc de Bourbon marks a very
important event in the life of his grandfather. The religious
instruction of Condé had been as thorough as the other branches of his
education, and, in early youth, he appears to have been as orthodox
a Catholic as any one could desire, and even to have shown some
degree of fervour. However, his life of war and pleasures soon brought
indifference, and the society of fashionable freethinkers, like
Saint-Évremond and the celebrated Princess Palatine, combined with
the difficulty he experienced in reconciling the doctrines of the
philosophers whose works he was fond of studying with the theological
teaching of the time, raised doubts in his mind which eventually led
to a very pronounced form of unbelief. At the same time, he declared
himself to be always open to conviction of his errors, and one of his
favourite occupations in his later years was to engage in theological
discussions with Bossuet, the Oratorian Malbranche, and other eminent
divines.
The death of his beloved sister, Madame de Longueville, who, in April,
1679, crowned twenty-seven years of penitence and good works by a truly
Christian death, at which Condé was himself present, made a profound
impression upon him, and he was even more impressed by that of his old
friend, the Princess Palatine, who, after declaring that the greatest
of all miracles would be her conversion to Christianity, had for
the last twelve years been leading a life of almost equal devotion.
From that time, the discussions between Condé and Bossuet became
more frequent, and little by little the prince began to surmount the
obstacles which barred his return to the fold.
It was, however, a Jesuit, Père des Champs, formerly a fellow-pupil of
Condé at Bourges, who was to finish the work which the great bishop
had begun. At the beginning of Holy Week, 1685, the prince summoned
him to Chantilly; for several days they remained closeted together,
after which Condé descended to the chapel and received the Sacrament,
in the presence of all his Household. Some weeks later, he communicated
publicly at the Church of Saint-Sulpice, in which parish the Hôtel de
Condé was situated.
For some time past Condé’s health had been such as to occasion grave
anxiety; his attacks of gout were becoming more frequent and more
severe, and he was often so feeble that he was unable to walk without
assistance. When, at the end of May, 1686, although in great pain, he
insisted on coming to Versailles to attend a Chapter of the Ordre
du Saint-Esprit, at which the _cordon bleu_ was to be bestowed
on the Duc de Bourbon and the Prince de Conti, the fatigue which the
journey and the ceremony entailed exhausted him to such a degree that,
according to Sourches, those present “expected every moment to see him
die.”
Towards the middle of the following November, news reached Chantilly
that the little Duchesse de Bourbon had been taken seriously ill with
small-pox at Fontainebleau, where the Court was then in residence.
Notwithstanding that he was again suffering from the gout, _Monsieur
le Prince_ at once ordered his coach and set off for Fontainebleau.
On the road he met the Duc de Bourbon and his eldest sister, Mlle. de
Condé, whom the King had sent to Paris, so that they should not be
exposed to the contagion. Alarmed at their grandfather’s appearance,
they endeavoured to persuade him to turn back, but he insisted on
continuing the journey. Arrived at Fontainebleau, he shut himself up
with the Duchesse de Bourbon and “rendered her all the cares not only
of a tender father, but of a zealous guardian.”[239] The girl, however,
grew worse, and Louis XIV., on learning of his daughter’s danger,
wished to come and see her. “_Monsieur le Prince_,” writes Madame
de Caylus, “placed himself at the door to prevent him entering, and
there ensued a great struggle between parental love and the zeal of a
courtier, very glorious for _Madame la Duchesse_.” The writer adds
that the King, being the stronger, went in, notwithstanding Condé’s
resistance, but, according to other chroniclers, his Majesty was so
touched by his cousin’s zeal for his safety that he ended by allowing
him to have his way.
Soon after this incident, the Duchesse de Bourbon’s illness took a
turn for the better, and at the end of a fortnight she was pronounced
convalescent. Condé’s presence was no longer necessary; but the
change in his manner of life, the sleepless nights, the fatigue and
the anxiety he had endured, had been too much for an old man whose
constitution was already so shattered, and it was evident that his days
were numbered. He had expressed a wish to die at Chantilly, and it
was hoped that it might be possible to gratify it. But, on the morning
of 10 December he became much weaker, and was warned that it was time
to think of the Sacraments. He desired that Père des Champs should be
summoned from Paris, and, turning to Gourville, observed: “Ah well!
my friend, I believe my journey will be a longer one than we thought.
But I wish to write to the King.” And, after a vain attempt to write
himself, he dictated to his confessor, Père Bergier, a letter to Louis
XIV., to implore his pardon for the Prince de Conti, who had been for
some time in disgrace and seemed likely to remain there.
In the middle of the night, feeling worse, he made his confession and
received absolution from Père Bergier, Père des Champs not having yet
arrived, and at daybreak the curé of Fontainebleau brought him the
Viaticum. Shortly afterwards, _Monsieur le Duc_ arrived with the
news that the King had, on his own initiative, pardoned the Prince de
Conti, for the letter which _Monsieur le Prince_ had dictated the
previous day had not yet been despatched. This intelligence was a great
relief to Condé, who caused a few lines to be added to the letter,
thanking his Majesty for his kindness and assuring him that he should
now die content.
Conti and Père des Champs arrived a little later, and, with the Duc
and Duchesse d’Enghien, remained with him to the end, which came very
peacefully between seven and eight o’clock in the evening. “No one,”
wrote the British Ambassador, the Earl of Arran, to his Government,
“ever died with less concern, and he preserved his senses to the last
minute.”
After lying for some days in the mortuary chapel at Fontainebleau,
which had been transformed into a _chapelle ardente_, the body
of Condé was conveyed to Valery and interred in the family vault. His
heart was deposited in the Jesuit church in the Rue Saint-Antoine.
“In carrying to the same place the heart of my uncle, the Comte de
Clermont,” writes his great-grandson, “I had an opportunity of seeing
all the hearts of our ancestors, which were deposited there, enclosed
in silver-gilt cases; and I remarked (as did also those who accompanied
me) that the heart of the Great Condé was nearly double the size of
all the others.”[240]
On 10 March, 1687, a solemn service was held at Notre-Dame. The funeral
oration, pronounced by Bossuet, is generally considered the masterpiece
of that famous preacher, and is the greatest of all the tributes
rendered to the memory of Condé.
“At that moment” (during his last hours), exclaimed the orator, “he
(Condé) extended his consideration to the most humble of his servants.
With a liberality worthy of his birth and of their services, he left
them overwhelmed with gifts, but still more honoured by the proofs of
his remembrance.” But for the woman who had so gloriously borne his
name, who had so uncomplainingly shared his misfortunes, Condé, on his
death-bed, had not a word of tenderness, of gratitude, or of pardon.
Nay, if we are to believe _la Grande Mademoiselle_, on the morrow
of his masters death, Gourville carried to Louis XIV. a letter written
some time before, to be given him after that event, in which Condé
entreated the King never to allow the princess to leave her prison at
Châteauroux.[241]
However that may be, Claire-Clémence never quitted that gloomy
fortress, either living or dead; for, when she died, after surviving
her husband more than seven years (18 April, 1694), she was interred
in the Church of Saint-Martin, which lay within the precincts of the
château. “No member of her illustrious family appears to have attended
her obsequies, and doubtless the twelve poor people whom she had
had the charity to maintain out of her meagre allowance, with some
Capuchins from the neighbouring convent, were the only persons who came
to pray over the grave of her who, for her misfortune, had become “the
very high, very excellent and puissant Princesse de Condé.”[242]