One of the most remarkable personages in Parisian society during the last
century was Renée Charlotte Victoire de Froulay De Tesse, Marchioness De
Crequi. She sprang from the highest and proudest of the old French
nobility, and ever maintained the most exalted notions of the purity and
antiquity of blood, looking upon all families that could not date back
further than three or four hundred years as mere upstarts. When a beautiful
girl, fourteen years of age, she was presented to Louis XIV., at
Versailles, and the ancient monarch kissed her hand with great gallantry;
after an interval of about eighty-five years, when nearly a hundred years
old, the same testimonial of respect was paid her at the Tuileries by
Bonaparte, then First Consul, who promised her the restitution of the
confiscated forests formerly belonging to her family. She was one of the
most celebrated women of her time for intellectual grace and superiority,
and had the courage to remain at Paris and brave all the horrors of the
revolution, which laid waste the aristocratical world around her.
The memoirs she has left behind abound with curious anecdotes and vivid
pictures of Parisian life during the latter days of Louis XIV., the regency
of the Duke of Orleans, and the residue of the last century; and are highly
illustrative of the pride, splendor, and licentiousness of the French
nobility on the very eve of their tremendous downfall.
I shall draw forth a few scenes from her memoirs, taken almost at random,
and which, though given as actual and well-known circumstances, have quite
the air of romance.
* * * * *
All the great world of Paris were invited to be present at a grand
ceremonial, to take place in the church of the Abbey Royal of Panthemont.
Henrietta de Lenoncour, a young girl, of a noble family, of great beauty,
and heiress to immense estates, was to take the black veil. Invitations had
been issued in grand form, by her aunt and guardian, the Countess Brigitte
de Rupelmonde, canoness of Mauberge. The circumstance caused great talk and
wonder in the fashionable circles of Paris; everybody was at a loss to
imagine why a young girl, beautiful and rich, in the very springtime of her
charms, should renounce a world which she was so eminently qualified to
embellish and enjoy.
A lady of high rank, who visited the beautiful novice at the grate of her
convent-parlor, got a clew to the mystery. She found her in great
agitation; for a time she evidently repressed her feelings, but they at
length broke forth in passionate exclamations. "Heaven grant me grace,"
said she, "some day or other to pardon my cousin Gondrecourt the sorrows he
has caused me!"
"What do you mean?--what sorrows, my child?" inquired her visitor. "What
has your cousin done to affect you?"
"He is married!" cried she in accents of despair, but endeavoring to
repress her sobs.
"Married! I have heard nothing of the kind, my dear. Are you perfectly sure
of it?"
"Alas! nothing is more certain; my aunt de Rupelmonde informed me of it."
The lady retired, full of surprise and commiseration. She related the scene
in a circle of the highest nobility, in the saloon of the Marshal Prince of
Beauvau, where the unaccountable self-sacrifice of the beautiful novice was
under discussion.
"Alas!" said she, "the poor girl is crossed in love; she is about to
renounce the world in despair, at the marriage of her cousin De
Gondrecourt."
"What!" cried a gentleman present, "the Viscount de Gondrecourt married!
Never was there a greater falsehood. And 'her aunt told her so'! Oh! I
understand the plot. The countess is passionately fond of Gondrecourt, and
jealous of her beautiful niece; but her schemes are vain; the viscount
holds her in perfect detestation."
There was a mingled expression of ridicule, disgust, and indignation at the
thought of such a rivalry. The Countess Rupelmonde was old enough to be the
grandmother of the viscount. She was a woman of violent passions, and
imperious temper; robust in person, with a masculine voice, a dusky
complexion, green eyes, and powerful eyebrows.
"It is impossible," cried one of the company, "that a woman of the
countess's age and appearance can be guilty of such folly. No, no; you
mistake the aim of this detestable woman. She is managing to get possession
of the estate of her lovely niece."
This was admitted to be the most probable; and all concurred in believing
the countess to be at the bottom of the intended sacrifice; for although a
canoness, a dignitary of a religious order, she was pronounced little
better than a devil incarnate.
The Princess de Beauvau, a woman of generous spirit and intrepid zeal,
suddenly rose from the chair in which she had been reclining. "My prince,"
said she, addressing her husband, "if you approve of it, I will go
immediately and have a conversation on this subject with the archbishop.
There is not a moment to spare. It is now past midnight; the ceremony is to
take place in the morning. A few hours and the irrevocable vows will be
pronounced."
The prince inclined his head in respectful assent. The princess set about
her generous enterprise with a woman's promptness. Within a short time her
carriage was at the iron gate of the archiepiscopal palace, and her
servants rang for admission. Two Switzers, who had charge of the gate, were
fast asleep in the porter's lodge, for it was half-past two in the morning.
It was some time before they could be awakened, and longer before they
could be made to come forth.
"The Princess de Beauvau is at the gate!"
Such a personage was not to be received in deshabille. Her dignity and the
dignity of the archbishop demanded that the gate should be served in full
costume. For half an hour, therefore, had the princess to wait, in feverish
impatience, until the two dignitaries of the porter's lodge arrayed
themselves; and three o'clock sounded from the tower of Notre Dame before
they came forth. They were in grand livery, of a buff color, with amaranth
galloons, plaited with silver, and fringed sword-belts reaching to their
knees, in which were suspended long rapiers. They had small three-cornered
hats, surmounted with plumes; and each bore in his hand a halbert. Thus
equipped at all points, they planted themselves before the door of the
carriage; struck the ends of their halberts on the ground with emphasis;
and stood waiting with official importance, but profound respect, to know
the pleasure of the princess.
She demanded to speak with the archbishop. A most reverential bow and shrug
accompanied the reply, that "His Grandeur was not at home."
Not at home! Where was he to be found? Another bow and shrug: "His Grandeur
either was, or ought to be, in retirement in the seminary of St. Magloire;
unless he had gone to pass the Fete of St. Bruno with the reverend
Carthusian fathers of the Rue d'Enfer; or perhaps he might have gone to
repose himself in his castle of Conflans-sur-Seine. Though, on further
thought, it was not unlikely he might have gone to sleep at St. Cyr, where
the Bishop of Chartres never failed to invite him for the anniversary
soiree of Madame de Maintenon."
The princess was in despair at this multiplicity of crossroads pointed out
for the chase; the brief interval of time was rapidly elapsing; day already
began to dawn; she saw there was no hope of finding the archbishop before
the moment of his entrance into the church for the morning's ceremony; so
she returned home quite distressed.
At seven o'clock in the morning the princess was in the parlor of the
monastery of De Panthemont, and sent in an urgent request for a moment's
conversation with the Lady Abbess. The reply brought was, that the abbess
could not come to the parlor, being obliged to attend in the choir at the
canonical hours. The princess entreated permission to enter the convent, to
reveal to the Lady Abbess in two words something of the greatest
importance. The abbess sent word in reply, that the thing was impossible,
until she had obtained permission from the Archbishop of Paris. The
princess retired once more to her carriage, and now, as a forlorn hope,
took her station at the door of the church to watch for the arrival of the
prelate.
After a while the splendid company invited to this great ceremony began to
arrive. The beauty, rank, and wealth of the novice had excited great
attention; and, as everybody was expected to be present on the occasion,
everybody pressed to secure a place. The street reverberated with the
continual roll of gilded carriages and chariots; coaches of princes and
dukes, designated by imperials of crimson velvet, and magnificent equipages
of six horses, decked out with nodding plumes and sumptuous harnessing. At
length the equipages ceased to arrive; empty vehicles filled the street;
and, with a noisy and party-colored crowd of lackeys in rich liveries,
obstructed all the entrances to De Panthemont.
Eleven o'clock had struck; the last auditor had entered the church; the
deep tones of the organ began to swell through the sacred pile, yet still
the archbishop came not! The heart of the princess beat quicker and quicker
with vague apprehension; when a valet, dressed in cloth of silver, trimmed
with crimson velvet, approached her carriage precipitately. "Madame," said
he, "the archbishop is in the church; he entered by the portal of the
cloister; he is already in the sanctuary; the ceremony is about to
commence!"
What was to be done? To speak with the archbishop was now impossible, and
yet on the revelation she was to make to him depended the fate of the
lovely novice. The princess drew forth her tablets of enameled gold, wrote
a few lines therein with a pencil, and ordered her lackey to make way for
her through the crowd, and conduct her with all speed to the sacristy.
The description given of the church and the assemblage on this occasion
presents an idea of the aristocratical state of the times, and of the high
interest awakened by the affecting sacrifice about to take place. The
church was hung with superb tapestry, above which extended a band of white
damask, fringed with gold, and covered with armorial escutcheons. A large
pennon, emblazoned with the arms and alliances of the high-born damsel, was
suspended, according to custom, in place of the lamp of the sanctuary. The
lusters, girandoles, and candelabras of the king had been furnished in
profusion, to decorate the sacred edifice, and the pavements were all
covered with rich carpets.
The sanctuary presented a reverend and august assemblage of bishops,
canons, and monks of various orders, Benedictines, Bernardines, Raccollets,
Capuchins, and others, all in their appropriate robes and dresses. In the
midst presided the Archbishop of Paris, Christopher de Beaumont; surrounded
by his four arch priests and his vicars-general. He was seated with his
back against the altar. When his eyes were cast down, his countenance, pale
and severe, is represented as having been somewhat sepulchral and
death-like; but the moment he raised his large, dark, sparkling eyes, the
whole became animated; beaming with ardor, and expressive of energy,
penetration, and firmness.
The audience that crowded the church was no less illustrious. Excepting the
royal family, all that was elevated in rank and title was there; never had
a ceremonial of the kind attracted an equal concourse of the high
aristocracy of Paris.
At length the grated gates of the choir creaked on their hinges, and Madame
de Richelieu, the high and noble Abbess of De Panthemont, advanced to
resign the novice into the hands of her aunt, the Countess Canoness De
Rupelmonde. Every eye was turned with intense curiosity to gain a sight of
the beautiful victim. She was sumptuously dressed, but her paleness and
languor accorded but little with her brilliant attire. The Canoness De
Rupelmonde conducted her niece to her praying-desk, where, as soon as the
poor girl knelt down, she sank as if exhausted. Just then a sort of murmur
was heard at the lower end of the church, where the servants in livery were
gathered. A young man was borne forth, struggling in convulsions. He was in
the uniform of an officer of the guards of King Stanislaus, Duke of
Lorraine. A whisper circulated that it was the young Viscount de
Gondrecourt, and that he was a lover of the novice. Almost all the young
nobles present hurried forth to proffer him sympathy and assistance.
The Archbishop of Paris remained all this time seated before the altar; his
eyes cast down, his pallid countenance giving no signs of interest or
participation in the scene around him. It was noticed that in one of his
hands, which was covered with a violet glove, he grasped firmly a pair of
tablets, of enameled gold.
The Canoness de Rupelmonde conducted her niece to the prelate, to make her
profession of self-devotion, and to utter the irrevocable vow. As the
lovely novice knelt at his feet, the archbishop fixed on her his dark,
beaming eyes, with a kind but earnest expression. "Sister!" said he, in the
softest and most benevolent tone of voice, "What is your age?"
"Nineteen years, monseigneur," eagerly interposed the Countess de
Rupelmonde.
"_You_ will reply to me by-and-by, madame," said the archbishop,
dryly. He then repeated his question to the novice, who replied in a
faltering voice, "Seventeen years."
"In what diocese did you take the white veil?"
"In the diocese of Toul."
"How!" exclaimed the archbishop, vehemently. "In the diocese of Toul? The
chair of Toul is vacant! The bishop of Toul died fifteen months since; and
those who officiate in the chapter are not authorized to receive novices.
Your novitiate, mademoiselle, is null and void, and we cannot receive your
profession."
The archbishop rose from his chair, resumed his miter, and took the crozier
from the hands of an attendant.
"My dear brethren," said he, addressing the assembly, "there is no
necessity for our examining and interrogating Mademoiselle de Lenoncour on
the sincerity of her religious vocation. There is a canonical impediment to
her professing for the present; and, as to the future, we reserve to
ourselves the consideration of the matter; interdicting to all other
ecclesiastical persons the power of accepting her vows, under penalty of
interdiction, of suspension, and of nullification; all which is in virtue
of our metropolitan rights, contained in the terms of the bull _cum
proximis_:" "_Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini!_" pursued he,
chanting in a grave and solemn voice, and turning toward the altar to give
the benediction of the holy sacrament.
The noble auditory had that habitude of reserve, that empire, or rather
tyranny, over all outward manifestations of internal emotions, which
belongs to high aristocratical breeding. The declaration of the archbishop,
therefore, was received as one of the most natural and ordinary things in
the world, and all knelt down and received the pontifical benediction with
perfect decorum. As soon, however, as they were released from the
self-restraint imposed by etiquette, they amply indemnified themselves; and
nothing was talked of for a month, in the fashionable saloons of Paris, but
the loves of the handsome Viscount and the charming Henrietta; the
wickedness of the canoness; the active benevolence and admirable address of
the Princess de Beauvau; and the great wisdom of the archbishop, who was
particularly extolled for his delicacy in defeating this maneuver without
any scandal to the aristocracy, or public stigma on the name of De
Rupelmonde, and without any departure from pastoral gentleness, by adroitly
seizing upon an informality, and turning it to beneficial account, with as
much authority as charitable circumspection.
As to the Canoness de Rupelmonde, she was defeated at all points in her
wicked plans against her beautiful niece. In consequence of the caveat of
the archbishop, her superior ecclesiastic, the Abbess de Panthemont,
formally forbade Mademoiselle de Lenoncour to resume the white veil and the
dress of a novitiate, and instead of a novice's cell established her in a
beautiful apartment as a boarder. The next morning the Canoness de
Rupelmonde called at the convent to take away her niece; but, to her
confusion, the abbess produced a lettre-de-cachet, which she had just
received, and which forbade mademoiselle to leave the convent with any
other person save the Prince de Beauvau.
Under the auspices and the vigilant attention of the prince, the whole
affair was wound up in the most technical and circumstantial manner. The
Countess de Rupelmonde, by a decree of the Grand Council, was divested of
the guardianship of her niece. All the arrears of revenues accumulated
during Mademoiselle de Lenoncour's minority were rigorously collected, the
accounts scrutinized and adjusted, and her noble fortune placed safely and
entirely in her hands.
In a little while the noble personages who had been invited to the ceremony
of taking the veil received another invitation, on the part of the Countess
dowager de Gondrecourt, and the Marshal Prince de Beauvau, to attend the
marriage of Adrien de Gondrecourt, Viscount of Jean-sur-Moselle, and
Henrietta de Lenoncour, Countess de Hevouwal, etc., which duly took place
in the chapel of the archiepiscopal palace at Paris.
* * * * *
So much for the beautiful Henrietta de Lenoncour. We will now draw forth a
companion picture of a handsome young cavalier, who figured in the gay
world of Paris about the same time, and concerning whom the ancient
marchioness writes with the lingering feeling of youthful romance.
* * * * *